


Amidst a Clash of Worlds

by cloudsarefluffy



Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: (Reverend Swanson), (dont worry tho ok we got this), Already, Alternate Universe - Video Game World, Angst, Animal Death, Arthur is a sweetheart, Arthur is also high key a softie, Arthur needs to use his words, BAMF Arthur, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Creepy Dutch, Drunken Shenanigans, Dutch Van Der Linde is a Dick, F/M, Feelings, Female Reader, Fluff, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, May contain spoilers, Mentions of addiction, Not Canon Compliant, Pre-Blackwater Heist, Protective Arthur, Reader fic - Freeform, Self-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Warning: Micah Bell, arthur tries, but not like that, hehe, kind Arthur Morgan, obvs, okay, read dead redemption, reader - Freeform, red dead redemption 2 - Freeform, srry, starts before Blackwater heist, tbh, to an extent it will be tho so some spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-01
Updated: 2019-09-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 13:20:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 329,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17081057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudsarefluffy/pseuds/cloudsarefluffy
Summary: In the year 1899, the Wild West is dying. The way of life that many have called their own or have lead on for generations is coming to an end. With the century about to turn, the golden age of gunslingers and the lawless lands of America is now tarnished and scrapped, and the dawn of newfound civility and society comes upon the horizon.Reading through your eyes as a self-determined woman coined "Wolf," you will see how your life as a devoted daughter trying to save your ailing father is about to completely change. After taking upon a major debt from a gang for which you cannot repay, your launderer Leopold Strauss sends his best collector, an outlaw by the name of Arthur Morgan, your way.As the foothold of Arthur's gang remaining as one of the most notorious and imposing posses fades like a setting sun, you will quickly find yourself amidst a dying way of life, all while you fight for the chance to start another with the man who believes he can never change.(set to start before the infamous Blackwater heist. number of chapters may be subject to change.)





	1. Prologue — Blackwater I

**Author's Note:**

> **EDIT (5/25):** I changed the summary to this story! Hope you all like it! I think it reads a lot better, haha.  
> And, since I had to remove it from the summary box, here's the prompt that started it all!
> 
> On Tumblr, Anon asked: _hi I read ur want not for change arthurxreader fic and I loved it! I was wondering if you could poss write a slow burn arthurxreader fic? pref female reader? I would love to see a relationship grow and build between Arthur and the reader, and how that affects the story. how everything happens is up to you. I’m not picky! Ty!_
> 
> \- - -
> 
>  
> 
>  **EDIT (1/17):** hey guys! Just a quick update for all of you who have filtered in through Tumblr or by happenstance!
> 
> I got my new laptop a day ago now, and ever since, I’ve really sunk my teeth into the next chapter! 
> 
> Currently, where it sits now is around 11.5k words, and I’m nowhere close to finishing. Chapter 2 may be broken up into “two parts,” as I kind of intend for the story to have 6/7 “chapters” like the game itself.
> 
> But I just wanted to let you know I’m still here, and I’m definitely writing!
> 
> All your love and support has been overwhelming, and I appreciate it so much I’m so stoked for this story and sharing it with you! 
> 
> Here’s to the update being finished soon! Until then, I’ll respond to comments both on here and tumblr asap! :)
> 
> Tysm! <3
> 
> ((Also, I'm going to be going through and fixing this chapter up! There's unfortunately a few errors due to my previous set up: which was a Bluetooth keyboard and an iPad. It proved to be a bit disastrous at some points, especially with something as inaccurate as autocorrect on a keyboard that liked to lag in connection. 
> 
> So I'll be coming through and sprucing this back to life soon! Until then!))
> 
> —————-
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> Oooookay! So let’s just say I’m really excited for this. :)
> 
> Honestly, I adore slow burns and builds within any fic, and only more so for some Arthur/Reader action. I’ve legit cleaned house with those, and I’ll admit I’ve got a bad habit of reading everything and finishing it as soon as it’s uploaded. 
> 
> Now, I just wanna say that im also excited for the story. Ofc, this is going to loosely follow canon wherever I feel it’s just. Some things are yet to be determined, but I’ll just go ahead and put a warning for spoilers nevertheless. 
> 
> Even then, the world building for this was really fun, and I loved getting to establish the reader as a character in quite a bind.
> 
> Not sure where this adventure will lead us, or how long it will be, but I’m ready to get started!
> 
> Hope you all like it!
> 
> Oh, and a few disclaimers as well:  
> \- this is not meant to be historically accurate in any way. I’ll try to be accurate in the sense that cowboys won’t be getting on iPhones in the Wild West, but don’t expect textbook levels of compliance. This is loose fiction. ;)  
> \- I also may change the canon either by accident or on purpose, so it may tag onto canon events but follow them verbatim.  
> \- I don’t use Y/N in dialogue or the story because I feel it really disconnects and causes the reader to get knocked out of their flow by having to mentally replace their name in its place, so expect nicknames or pet names bc ya boi loves that shit.
> 
> Also, make sure you read the tags and check the warnings! This fic will contain a certain amount of violence, especially as it progresses. Ratings and tags will be updated accordingly, so ALWAYS look over them before a new chapter!
> 
> Sometimes notes can have some important information, so be sure to check these out too!
> 
> Also, another thing to note: I wrote this on an iPad and beta’d this when I should’ve been sleeping, so I apologize about any horrendous errors from “autocorrect” or clumsy fingers. 
> 
> Enjoy!~
> 
> Enjoy!~

## PROLOGUE:

## BLACKWATER

The loan you took was one of utter desperation.

You weren't raised to be a stupid woman, you knew just how bad of a predicament this was. But you had no choice. There was no other option.

Your father was sick, and gravely so. 

His illness has plagued him for some time, slowly draining what little money you both had as he progressively got worse and worse. The coughs that rattled his chest, the horrific sight that he was whenever he was having a fit... 

The man once known as the best trapper and hunter in West Elizabeth... Left to be a wreck, at the mercy of his own body.

You didn't know what else to do.

At this point, you had sold everything you could. Your nicer clothes, guns, your father's horse... None of it was able to keep you getting by with your father riddled with his sickness inside of your decrepit hunter's cabin.

The doctor in Blackwater, Francis Cole, knew of your plight, and took great joy in drinking you dry every time you managed to find even a nickel in between the floorboards. It was crooked and evil, what he did— slowly raising the prices of medicines, and making it harder for your father to be seen by him. 

It's why you were taking on this debt, why you were at the end of your rope. A part of you knew you were signing your life away the moment that the old man with glasses and a snake's smile handed you his ledger, but it didn't matter.

Your father would've done the same for you, had you been the one who fell ill. And, if there was even a chance of saving him no matter the cost, you know you'd take it.

It was fifty dollars — a steep loan, yes — but it was more than enough for Francis to take a look without giving you grief, and to cover whatever medicines, tonics, teas, or anything else that your father would be needing.

While you have no clue as to how you can somehow earn even just a few measly dollars to pay this back, there is no hesitancy as you take the pen he offers to you to fill out his ledger.

"I hope you remember our deal," the man had said to you, his accented voice chipper as you finished your signature, "But if you don't, I will be sure to remind."

It was undoubtedly a subtle threat, but you did not rise to it. You had read the man's contract, you knew what sort of snake you were dealing with. Even from word across town from others who had already crossed him. 

None of it had stopped you, though. You were more concerned over getting your father more medicine, another visit.

When the money was presented, you didn't hesitate to grab every bill, and you did not linger once you made sure you had every cent.

Afterward, you rushed into town, going full speed until you reached a familiar door.

Banging on it, you gripped tightly onto the money as you waited outside of Francis' office, only to be met by an even worse smile and ominous gaze once the door opened.

"Back again so soon, Ms. Broce? You father still unwell?"

His European accent grates on your nerves, and you try to remain calm as he looks down upon you for being at his doorstep once more.

You have come to hate this man with a bitterness that has yet to be rivaled.

He is smirking at you, tweaking the black curl of his mustache to humor himself as he waits upon your word. 

He has only gotten more cocky, more greedy, as he got to know about your situation, and the corner he was pushing you into. It was obvious he takes great glee out of sucking you dry, like the parasite he is.

And you can tell he is only that much happier that you are here to offer even more, yet again.

With a set glare, you shove the loaned money into his chest, hissing, "This should be more than enough to see and treat him."

Francis' eyes do go wide for a moment as he sees the cash that you are holding, but he is quick to steal it away. His hand snakes around the money held between your fingers, and he makes sure to slither it into the pocket of his fine suit before regarding you again.

"While I would normally question how someone in a situation such as yours managed to find such a sum of dollars, I believe I can make an exception in your case."

"Ain't no exception needed, just treatment," you narrow your eyes on him then, not bothering to hide your distaste and annoyance, "And you better do so after what I've given you."

Francis chuckles and holds his hands up in mock surrender, "Now now, Ms. Broce, no need to be sharp of tongue. I will come see your father, and I will do what I can to ensure his good health."

You merely huff in acknowledgement to Francis' words, despite you doubting any of what is obvious to be his false sincerity.

"I will meet you down there at that... cabin, of yours," Francis starts, pivoting his body slightly towards the interior of his office, "Shan't be long."

At that, you shake your head, and turn to leave, no longer wanting to stay in the man's presence when it wasn't necessary.

As you begin to walk away down the littered street, you can hear the door to Francis' office shutting, the bell on it jingling as it closes. 

It feels like a toll for death, as you shove your now empty hands into the pockets of your worn work pants. Each step you take only amplifies the weight of what has just transpired as it comes down upon you.

Without him even being present, you can hear the scornful voice of your father in your head, and the shame it always brings with it is no stranger to you. There is no doubt in your mind how much of a fool you're being, but you're in no position to be anything but.

Despite the guilt that plagues each stride you take, you reach the end of the muddy streets to where D'or, your horse, is waiting for you. You are happy to see her, and she whinnies softly as you approach.

Just like your father though, she is a sight for sore eyes. 

Once a prized and strong work horse, your current way of life, or lack thereof, has taken a toll on her. 

It breaks your heart, having raised your golden beauty since she was carried in her mother and took her first wobbly steps as a foal, to see her in such a state.

She's lost weight, and far too much. Her ribs are rather visible throughout her massive frame, and her golden champagne coat is no longer shiny and soft, having now become brittlely dull and rough. There is no doubt that she is weaker, having not as much muscle or strength as she used to. Her state leaves her to get tired and winded quicker than before, and it worries you some.

But, despite all of that, still has her lively spirit — which you are grateful for, no doubt. It is surprising that she has even held on like she has, and contrary to how she has been drained by you lack of luck and resources, she has still remained as loyal and steadfast as she always has been.

"Oh, D'or," you whisper to her softly, her head nodding to you as you brush down her faded, wiry hair, "What a shadow you've become."

All you can manage to do for right now is feed her yet another stale oatcake — the last of the box you managed to find in the cupboard a week ago. 

Unsurprisingly, she is ravenous as she takes it out of your palm, her teeth nearly nicking you from her haste. It only pulls at your frown further, and you pet her one more time before going to her side.

You manage to get onto your saddle, which has D'or standing at attention once you grab ahold of the reigns. Like always, she responds to your lightest of guidance, backing away from the hitching post and turning into the street to where you can begin steering her towards home. With a gentle spur, D'or is quick to get into a decent canter, her hooves clacking onto the dirty bricks of the streets below as you go to finally head out of Blackwater.

As D'or trots along the main back road by the docks, you look around, watching the high class citizens of the town go about their day. 

There's women who scoff and make snide comments about the unwanted trash, be it litter or other folks they distaste, as you pass. There are men in fine suits who linger outside of the tailor D'or trots by, ones who laugh about their wives and how whores seem more financially moral than the legal bindings of marriage. 

It almost makes you wonder— how someone's problems can be so dismal, almost rhetoric.

But then again, the rich never need to worry about much else.

Your eyes and thoughts are still wandering as you take the curve onto the right hand perimeter of Blackwater. The sounds of hammers and workmen chatting about draw your eyes to the unfinished town hall they're building, and you can't help but feel the distaste that bubbles up into the back of your throat, knowing how little it's going to help. 

Blackwater, even with acknowledgement to its attempts at progression and finer decadence, is rotting from the core. After all, it's why Francis was able to have such a lucrative "business" offering fallacy instead of medicine, you're sure. A town hall was going to offer nothing but another layer of bile — another bit of corruption — to the town, and you did not fancy the days for when it is finally completed.

With a snort of disgust, you pointedly shift your eyes away as you guide D'or along further, leaving you to look straight ahead to where the bank resides.

A few men in fine suits leave the building, laughing up a storm in boisterous bellows that sound high and mighty from where they strut.

Men of money, they are, and they jest to one another, seemingly unbothered by the few people they pass. Including a man they rudely bump into without so much as an apology.

Your gaze narrows, right as they brush their blunder off and leave the man fuming from where he had been leaning against one of the outer poles of the gazebo, his attention and body turned towards the bank. 

At their disregard, you can see a dark type of rage that flashes over the man's face— one that he struggles to quell before he tries to re-position and settle himself. You can hear a small curse leave him, but he goes back to his perch, somewhat angled away from you, and opens what looks like a book that he had been reading.

Curiously, you study the man, taking in his dusty, blue-striped shirt, and the faded black handkerchief that frames his neck. A worn leather hat rests on his head, the nicked brim of it cutting and breaking off the line of smoke from his lit cigarette. Slowly, he takes a few drags, working it from where it rests between the left corner of his lips.

As D'or brings you closer, you realize with some amount of surprise that he isn't reading. But rather, has a blank journal in one hand, and a pencil working away in another as it is held in his dirt-laced fingertips. And, despite the angle, you can tell his eyes are squinted with an intense amount of concentration as he scribbles, glancing between his pages and the bank in front of him.

You're almost close enough now to make out the rough graphite lining the pages, and you don't even think of stopping yourself from trying to leer a little to see what he was able to scratch onto the paper. 

It was foolish and rude of you, especially as the man must feel your eyes on him after the time you've let them train on his person.

Suddenly, he throws a sharp glance back over his thick shoulder— right as you peer down the length of your nose to spy into what he's doing.

Your gut sinks like lead as he snaps his journal shut, his green eyes not once leaving yours now that he discovered you staring. 

Without breaking his glare, the man quickly works his journal and pencil into a bag at his side. You grip tightly onto D'or's reigns as he spits out his cigarette, stomping it out with his boot all in one fluid motion.

He's facing you now, his stone cold irises trained on you, barely visible from underneath the dark brim of his hat. You are practically adjacent to him on the street, and D'or throws her head back a little, knowing that something is wrong and sensing your nerves. 

The fear you feel though only turns to ice as the man takes one step forward, his hand moving directly to the revolver holstered at his hip.

Without a second to spare, you are quick to spur D'or, and she obediently rushes forward with a burst of speed. 

It's just enough to get you away from the man, who is now yelling after you, but you have no plans on being any stupider today than you already have been. 

You have to dodge a few wagons and other people on their horses as you rush out of the main heart of Blackwater. But once you are nearing the church, you spur D'or as the main road opens into the plains before you. She responds immediately, neighing sharply as her thunderous hooves blur against the beaten dirt below.

You're not sure what that man was doing, or who he even was, but you have no doubt that he is someone you don't want to cross. So, the sooner you're back at your cabin with your father, the better.

You don't stop pushing her until you get to your familiar thicket of woods, not too far out of Tall Trees, and you let out a harsh breath of relief. You doubt the man was really able to follow you, with no horse in sight apart from D'or.

Paranoia, however, isn’t so easily shaken as you are. Like a mouse having been chased under the cupboard by a cat, you glance over your shoulder to the main road, assuring yourself that not even a trail of dust was following in your wake.

After a few moments and only watching birds fly overhead, and finding a single rabbit that worked its way through the underbrush, you are rather certain that the man wasn't able to follow you.

Beneath you, D'or is still snorting hotly through her nose, and she stomps her foot once to announce her impatience. Chuckling solemnly, you thank her under the breath you hadn't known you'd been holding till then, and give her a solid pat on her side before guiding her back down the rest of the road.

After a moment's more of riding, you come upon the familiar trail beaten into the earth over the years you've helped etch it into the soil with each hoof sprint and step.

As you steer D'or onto it, your breath hitches in your throat.

Through the webbing of the branches, you can make out the cabin that you've called home since the first day you can remember. It's small, and nothing much— especially now that it has started to fall apart from both the aid of father time and mother nature. 

Boards are loose and warped, the roof now sinks in. Vines have claimed the right side of the cabin, and have been snaking under nails and into seams where they don't belong. The chimney is crumbling apart, and you sigh with dismay as you notice that smoke from the fire inside comes out from more than just its top.

But, like much else, it is something that is going to have to be addressed once your father is better. Because until he is, every resource and dollar is already allocated until then. And since you have begun this determined journey of yours, you have become rather accustomed to restraint.

As you hitch D'or to the rotten post by the mouth of the trail, you can hear your father coughing inside. The rancid sound makes a sour scowl form on your lips.

Taking a deep breath, you school yourself before you hop off D’or, and enter your cabin.

Your father is still in bed, looking worse than when you left this morning. His skin is pale, and his eyes are dark and bloodshot. He takes a moment to notice you, having been hacking into his coiled fist until the harsh spasms ended.

But, when he eventually manages to catch a breath and can take the opportunity to see you, a sad smile stretches his lips.

"My little wolf, was wonderin' when you'd come back," he starts to barely laugh, but it quickly turns into another small fit of coughing.

You rush over, face pinched out of concern as you hold your father's back, waiting for it to pass.

It takes him a second, but he thankfully manages to come out of it. Taking a few deep, rattling breaths, he finally meets your eyes, and you can see just how much effort it takes him to try and appear as anything other than absolutely miserable. 

Tears form and clump onto your lower lashes, but you still smile back at him just the same.

"Ah, don't cry, little wolf," he murmurs, and he brings a weak, bony hand to brush the unshed tears away, "I'm still right here. Don't cry like I'm already gone when ya still got me."

"I know, papa," you say, your voice about as broken as your heart in your chest as you he leans into you, feeling so frail and small in a way that nearly turns your blood to ice, "I'm hoping I can keep it that way... Dr. Cole is on his way to see you again."

At your words, your father's eyes widen, and he gently pushes back from you a little in disbelief, "How? Thought you couldn't afford it no more..."

"Well, I could for today, and so I paid him," your time is clipped, and you don't miss the way your father's face darkens at that.

"He's nothin' but a damned oil salesman, for all I'm concerned," he scathes with a grit to his words, "If the sheriff wouldn't come down on you afterward, I would shoot 'em dead if I could."

"Papa," you lightly chide him, but you make it a point to not disagree.

The sigh your father heaves is deep, an uneasy wheeze. It is though all his fatigue crashed upon him then, with the way he looks at you, and he seems just so tired.

Concern is evident on your face as you help him lean back against the wall on his bed, and it does not lighten as go to the sink basin beside him. There, you grab a cloth and a small bowl of warm water to start cleaning him up.

As you return to his bedside, your father is wearing his own worry, as plain on him as the wrinkles etched into his freckled skin.

"Just wish he wasn't such a thorn in your side," your father murmurs to you, words quiet and regretful, and you try to hide your deepening frown as you carefully begin wiping at his feverish skin, "I know how he's been treatin' you because of how I'm sick. It's not right. If anythin', the sheriff should go after him."

You dip the rag into the bowl of warmed water then, but say nothing. 

You don't have the heart to tell your father that you already tried telling the sheriff about Francis and his converted business, about how predatory he was when it came to your sickly father. But it accomplished not a damn thing.

Either the sheriff was in on things in some way, or he was just as crooked of a man as Francis was. The type of corrupt that left him uncaring for the unfortunate likes of you unless he was made to.

But you didn't want to tell your father that. Ever.

The last thing he needed was knowing just how helpless you both were, and what you stopped to doing to try and get you both by.

"Little wolf," he starts with a whisper, and your eyes dart to his, breaking you out of your thoughts.

Outstretching an unsteady hand, he shakily cups your cheek, and runs a thumb over your soft skin with as much kindness as he can muster into his addled joints. You lean into the touch with your eyes falling shut, unable to stop the tight vice the moment has on your throat.

You flutter them back open, with tears threatening to fall once more at the way he looks so certain and steeled.

"I want you to promise me somethin'," he says, and it is the clearest he has sounded since he first fell ill some months ago— you look back at him, making sure he knows that you are listening, "This is the last time you pay a damn cent to Dr. Cole, do you understand me?"

The words are like searing bullets, ripping deep into you with finality. Your eyes are wide, and you can see your father's stoic resolve in his dull eyes before you even manage to get in an attempt at rebuttal.

"No," he places a stern finger on your lips, silencing you before even a word passes through them, "You have done enough. More than enough. I'm an old man, and I lived my life on this earth as well as I ever could've. The last thing I want is for you to risk your own when we all know what's happenin' with mine."

It's this. This is what you wanted to avoid. To Argue. To deny. To fight. 

The truth, or maybe, even just rationality that you have been trying to delay from settling in. What you’ve attempted to snuffle out with medicines and countless attempts at hope. 

You stifle a sob then, and for the first time since your mother passed away when you were young, you can see your father holding back tears of his own.

But he continues to speak — despite his sickness, despite the way his voice wobbles at the way your heart shatters into millions of irreparable pieces.

"You're a good woman. Smart, beautiful, talented. I've raised you as best I could. With your mother, and without," his bottom lip trembles, and he sucks in a sharp breath that rasps through his addled lungs, "I would rather die in the most painful of ways, than for you to lose any chance you have at getting to be what I know you can become."

Stuttering, you shake your head, "P-Papa—"

"There is no argument to be made," he says with force, and you hang your head and offer a stilted nod in understanding, "My last wish is that you do not waste anythin' more on me. Not another cent, not another tonic. That is what I ask of you."

"Y-Yes, papa..."

"Good," he takes a second to collect himself, and leans back against the wall, staring absently at the rest of the cabin as his tears clear, and you try to wipe your own away, "I'll see Dr. Cole this last time, since you already paid whatever amount that fool demanded... But, nothin' more."

You stay silent, your guilty tears burning along your skin accusingly, because there is nothing else you can say.

\---

Much to your father's distaste, Francis arrives some time later. 

And with his arrival, the heaviness of your earlier discussion only amplifies. The ultimatum sat at your feet by your father lingers in the air like the smoke of Francis' cigar.

Your more than half-tempted to rip it out of his damn mouth, but you know better than to be so brash with this man.

If you did so, you know he would only leave then without finishing up with your father. And the last thing you want to do is waste this last opportunity, especially with so much resting upon it.

So you stay seated beside your father's bed, your hands white-knuckled as you grip onto the dirty legs of your pants as Francis takes sluggish drags from his cigar.

His eyes are doing a thorough look-over of your father, quiet and calculating from where his is sat on the edge of your father's bed.

So far, the only thing he has done is occasionally open his mouth to exhale leisured lungfuls of smoke, and it's been taking everything within you to remain seated and patient.

From the grim expression on his face, you know your father is less than happy himself. But, you reckon that has more to do with Francis being here than what he told you right before he arrived.

"Your cough any better?" Francis finally asks, his tone impassive and unconcerned.

"No," the tone your father carries is curt, "I have fits sometimes... Takes a minute or two to get out of 'em."

Francis hums, nodding, taking another drag before exhaling and asking, "Any blood?"

"Once, but not since then. That was... I reckon, a few weeks ago. Wasn't much at all, just a few spots."

Francis grabs his large, leather bag then, ruffling through its contents as he talks, "Well, my educated guess is that this started as a cold. A cold that made itself a guest for far too long, and has now turned into a nasty case of pneumonia."

At the diagnosis, it was as though frigid water was dropped onto you then, and you blurt, "That's treatable, right?"

Francis snorts, and you are quick to hide your face as you grit your teeth at his apparent mocking.

"Yes, it's treatable. Only concern is if your father is strong enough to overcome it, even with medicine," Francis' hand emerges from his bag then with a dark blue bottle held in his fingers, and he checks the label before handing it over to your father, "This here is a health tonic. It's a newer one I picked up while I was visiting Saint Denis some months back with a colleague of mine. Heard it has quite the results."

Your father inspects the bottle, his brows furrowing as he looks at the labeling, "You ever give it to someone before?"

"Once," Francis stands then, "seemed to do the trick. Just take a good swig of that once a day and you should see some improvement in the following days. Should being a choice word."

At his brashness, you stand, mouth open to start berating Francis for the callous tongue he has adopted about your father. But he holds out a hand to you to stop, and says nothing until you have finally reseated yourself.

The rage you attempt to quell burns hotly, searing your thoughts as Francis smirks at your begrudged obedience.

The smile falls though, and he turns back to your father, his eyes dropping to the bottle in his hand.

"Mr. Broce, I have to be frank with you both. You are not well off, sir. There is a good chance that this may be for nothing," Francis says to your father, and you bite your lower lip as your dad refuses to look at Francis, his glare downcast, "Just try to stay warm, and make sure you are drinking and resting often, if you're able. I know you have been a man set in your ways for years, but, this is mainly a case of luck. Or fate."

At those words, you hold your fist to your side in a barely restrained attempt at not hitting Francis across the skull. Somehow, you manage to not allow your fury to crescendo as he walks towards your door, passing you with yet another unnecessary smile on his lips.

"It was a pleasure to offer my services to you, Ms. Broce. And, I hope you find yourself well soon, sir," he tips his bowler hat towards you and you father before exiting your cabin, leaving you two to glare towards the floorboards until you are certain he's gone.

You both say nothing for a minute more, but when you finally look up at your father, you hesitantly eye the blue bottle in his hand.

"Think it's goin' to work?" he asks you softly.

"I'm prayin' that it does," you whisper back, and your father nods once as he uncorks it.

He takes a mouthful, wincing at the taste before forcing himself to swallow it down. With a noise of utter disgust, he shoves the cork back in before setting the bottle down on the nightstand beside him.

"Pray that will be the last time we see the likes of him," he hisses, flicking his tongue at the rancidness of the tonic, and you solemnly smirk at his spite.

You yourself want nothing more for than those words to be true.

\---

A few days pass, but slowly, and without mercy. 

Your father still takes his medicine out of ritual for you, but you can tell it's not helping.

In fact, he's only getting worse. 

Coupled with the cough, he's begun to get stomach pains, and will sometimes have to go outside to empty its contents into the dead weeds right outside the door. It happens no matter what he eats or drinks— hell, even if didn’t swallow a morsel or drop.

It has become routine now. He wakes, takes the medicine, gets sicker, and passes out for the remainder of the day.

You can tell he's just getting weaker and weaker, but with your father's words from before Francis' visit as fresh on your mind as the ink in the ledger you signed, you're not sure what to do.

You're tempted to confront Francis, to tell him the medicine is not working, but you doubt that Francis will try and help you. Not again without some sort of monetary exchange in advance. His care has become a luxury you could no longer afford. And you knew he took glee from your predicament of being under his thumb, with no feasible escape.

It was rather obvious, with the way his grin was all canine when he saw you in town at the general store.

There was war in your thoughts, the battle plain on your face as you stood by cans of pomade and bitters. In your hands, you held a dark green bottle with clammy fingers.

While you had never thought of such an act before, you were distraught as a nasty thought emerged in your mind. Upon seeing it, you had wondered if stealing a general health tonic would help, and you had plucked it from the shelf without so much as considering what you were doing.

But, your conscience had some control left, just enough to leave you frozen from where you were conflicted in the general store. The internal debate had left you there for some time, and now, it made a show for Francis as he happened to catch sight of you while making his rounds down the main road of Blackwater.

Upon the sight of you, it only furthered your suspicions. He had no intention of helping you again, unless fees were tacked on and you paid. You knew this.

You knew, when you could only watch as he chuckled to himself, tipped his hat to you, and walked on without so much as an inquiry to your father.

You were in shambles, and more desperate than you had ever been.

And, despite being raised better, of knowing better, of your father raising you to be honest and anything but, when the shopkeeper looked away, you hurriedly took the tonic and shoved it under your chemise. 

To some degree of luck, the shopkeeper didn't notice.

But, he did see how you were torn up as you left the shop, as you already started to regret what you have just done.

But it was too late now. For so many things.

Although you were in shambles as you darted outside, no one bothered to pay much attention to you.

Despite passing multiple patrons and other townsfolk, they did not rise to your tears. But, they knew of your plight. Of your poverty, and your sickly father.

They more than likely pinned your tears on your misfortune, and not the likes of a stolen bottle that feels like a gunshot wound against your chest.

It only burned you further as you clambered up onto D'or.

With each step she took away from the store, your guilt only weighed upon you more. And as you passed one of the deputies, you felt your heart nearly burst in your chest, the bottle under your chemise feeling damning as he nodded to you as you passed on D’or.

It was suffocating.

You only made it past the church before you couldn't take it anymore, and you grabbed the tonic out of your chemise as though it were a hot coal pressed against your skin. You blurredly stare at it, long and hard, wondering if it was tangible and real and if this was a dream in which you should wake from.

But, it does not disappear from where you hold it tightly in your hands. It does not erase what you have done.

And your father, he would ask where it came from, and how you got it. 

With how he was already suspicious of how you managed the act of paying Francis off one last time, he will not be so easily fooled as to believe you got this tonic fairly. 

A part of you still considers the chance, of still offering it to him, or swapping it with Francis’ underperforming tonic.

But you remember then, of the promise he made you take, and, that he wanted to make certain that you kept.

The last thing you wish for is for your father to die knowing you were a thief and a debtor. That, because of him, you were turning to stealing and questionable loans to futilely try and get him better.

Picturing the hurt in his eyes, the disbelief in his voice. The utter disappointment that he would feel at the levels you stooped to for him.

You would only bring pure shame in what is assuredly his last moments.

The health tonic slips through your fingers then, falling towards the ground.

The dark glass shatters apart, leaving the tonic to soak uselessly into the dirt below. It is more damning then, to stare at the broken pieces with your chest seizing.

This was it. You had no choice now.

There was nothing more to be done than to try and make what time was left worth it.

\---

It was overcast, and a bit chilly that morning a week after Francis' visit.

The birds refused to sing as they usually did, and the cabin had what felt like a dense fog in the air as you tried to breathe. 

The loan, the extortion, the new medicine — none of it worked.

You said not a word, not even as you wrapped your father in his sheets, and began to dig a plot outside. 

Your eyes were stinging like your hands, blisters worn into your fingers as you shoved the spade of the rusted shovel down into the dirt over and over.

As broke past roots and through the earth below, your mind was blank, except for the overwhelming dread and fear that you felt. 

Everything you had done, everything that you had sacrificed...

There was nothing left for you to do but mourn, and dig.

And so, you buried your father.

His grave's new stake now erected beside the weathered cross your mother's bore.

Numbly, you looked between the two with tears running down your cheeks, unsure of what to do next.

You cared not for the dirt that you left on your skin as you tried to wipe the tears away, or for the soil that clung to your dress as you fell into a heap in front of the plot of freshly overturned earth.

With your father gone, there was nothing left for you. 

Solemnly, you look over to D'or, who was nearly a pile of bones herself, and you couldn't stop the wave of utter helplessness that washes over you as a steady drizzle begins to fall.

Time passed, how much, you're unsure, but the drizzle has picked up to a soft rain, and your dress was completely sodden with it. 

But you stayed, lying in the mud, your sore eyes staring at the blur of your father's cross as though it could change a damn thing.

And that is how he found you.

You hadn't heard the light trot of hooves that came from behind you, or the sound of footsteps approaching.

It wasn’t until you heard a light curse under someone’s breath that you knew you were not alone, but you simply didn't care to even acknowledge anything other than the stake of wood in front of you.

After a moment, a throat awkwardly clears itself, and you turn, feeling like a ghost as your eyes come upon him.

You instantly recognize him— the man who tried to confront you over your nosiness of his sketching.

He seems to recognize you too, with the way his eyes narrow on you. But, he does not rise to his former anger. He seems hesitant, almost unsure.

For a second, you're worried that he may try and pull a gun on you like he did when he caught you leering in Blackwater, but he doesn't.

He remains where he is, his face pinched as he studies you in the rain. The look of pity he has has your grief turn into ire.

"What do you want?" you ask, voice brittle and hoarse over the rhythmic pattering of droplets as they land on the fallen leaves below you.

The man's gaze darts from your father's grave to you, and a frown pulls at his lips. You glare at him, and you feel anger boil within you at his intrusion as he finally turns his focus back to you.

"I—" he starts, voice low and deep before he presses his lips together in thought, "You Ms. Broce?"

You stand, numbly murmuring, "Unfortunately, yes."

"While I’m sure this is the last thing you want to be dealin’ with, I'm here on behalf of Leopold Strauss.

You feel your stomach sink down to your feet.

The man doesn't have to say anything else, and you look down towards the expanse of your ruined dress, "Ah... You're here to collect."

The man remains quiet, but you nod your head softly, and look back towards the cabin.

"Not sure if there's anything I can give you," you admit with heat lacing your words, "I've got next to nothin' to my name, now."

A moment passed, and at the lack of response, you turn your hardened gaze back to him.

"Well?" you hiss, "Are you going to try and get the money's worth back or not?"

The man takes a step towards you before hesitating, and he seems completely unsure of what to make of you and the situation. 

At that, you roll your eyes before turning and heading into your cabin, leaving the man to follow as you let your anger take control. Your movements are gruff, and short, and you start to tear apart what is left inside as he enters in behind you.

He lets you rip open your dresser, he lets you take apart the bed. He only watches as you practically destroy what was once your home, leaving you in tears as you find nothing of major significance to give. 

You end up collapsing back onto the floor, your face in your hands as you let your agony out in violent sobs.

Fifty dollars. That is what you owe. And now, with you father dead, you feel like you might as well be in the dirt with him.

Especially now, with this man here, expecting to be paid.

Your fear only grows, like the sound of spurred boots as the man cautiously approaches.

Maybe he is going to hit you. To demand you stop crying. Maybe he is going to try and rob you.

Which of, you don’t know. But our mind runs rampant as he stops right beside you.

To your complete shock, a hand places itself on your back.

It is gentle, and undemanding with its weight, and you feel as though he were comforting a spooked animal.

Now lost, you lift your head to look at the man, your mouth parted in confusion.

His eyes are calculating, but the way he looks at you is not one of judgment. You can tell there is a softness there, one that is completely unexpected from someone who is supposed to be collecting their due from you.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask under your breath, your stinging eyes wide as you attempt to make sense of him, “You ain’t gotta be kind to me.”

The man shrugs, breaking his eyes away for a second, “I’m just trying to make this as easy as possible for the both of us...”

At his peculiar words, your breath hitches.

You can tell that he’s surveying the cabin, trying to take stock of what is there, and what isn’t. As he tries to subtly take a look around, there is a small scowl that appears on his face, that only worsens as he takes in the rest of the interior.

And, after a few baited breaths, he mutters, “Shit... you really ain’t got nothin’, do you?”

It’s obvious that he isn’t sure what to do, or more so, what to take as he shakes his head.

"Is this the part where you beat me?" you tremble as your unbidden thoughts spill out, and as you shiver, he snatches his hand away as though you were a hot coal, "Are you going to shoot me? Make me lay with you—"

"No!” he stops you right there, the word angry and loud in the small cabin— you look away, tucking your knees against yourself as the man gives you some space, making a short noise of frustration before he talks, "I ain't doin' none of those things..."

It's your turn to say nothing now, and you look at the floorboards beside you as though they were at fault for everything.

"Listen...”

You peek at him from the corner of your eye then, and he sighs deeply.

“How about we take a moment to just sit here, and get ourselves in order," he suggests, and you glance up at him from where he goes to find a seat at your small dinner table, gesturing to the other open one across from him, "It's up to you, but I'm not gonna do anythin' as of right now, I promise."

You eye him for a moment longer, considering.

Obviously unsure, you get up unsteadily.

The man almost moves out of his chair, his hand somewhat lifted to come to your aid before he thinks better of it.

The fact that he seems so concerned for you is throwing you off in ways you can't really describe, but you manage to get yourself seated across from him without him having to get up. It’s a small victory, you suppose.

"Why are you bein' so kind to me?" you ask, your words barely above a whisper then, "You could just try to get your due. There's no need to show me such pity."

The question catches him a little off guard, but he offers a ginger smile at you before speaking, "I don't pity you, just don't want to make an awful day worse," he takes off his hat then, and sets it down onto your table so he can run a hand through his short, cropped hair, “Think that’s human if anyone enough.”

"Do you plan on takin' anythin'?"

With a small sneer, he shakes his head, his fingers snaking out of the dirty blonde strands as he huffs, "I'm not gonna search your cabin, if that's what you mean.”

Bitterly, you snort back, "Not like there's anythin' to take anyways..." you pause, and eye the cabinet on the wall beside him, and a thought pops into your head, "Unless you'd like a shot or two of whiskey?"

He hums then, and you can tell he considers it as you get up to get the bottle, his eyes on you the entire time. 

The whiskey was your father's, as you'd never really been one to drink.

But, after today, you would drown in a river of ales and whatever else that could help numb it in some way...

You grab two shot glasses and place the bottle on the table. You uncork it, watching as the man in front of you studies the bottle with more focus than necessary.

"Worried 'bout poison or somethin'?" you jest, and he merely quirks a brow at you for it, "Promise, it's safe. As long as you're not an awful drunk, that is."

That gets a chuckle out of him, but he still seems hesitant.

Rolling your eyes, you angrily bring the bottle up to your lips, and take a harsh swig before wincing at the burn it leaves on your throat.

"Guess that's proof enough," he says with some humor to his voice, and he seems to relax just a little bit more.

You forego the glasses, and just hand him the bottle as you collapse back into your chair.

He takes it from you, his eyes alight as he takes a drink himself, before setting the bottle back between the two of you.

"Name's Arthur," he says casually then, and you blink at him as a slight smile stretches his lips.

"Well, hello there, Arthur," you grab the bottle again as you continue, "Wish we met over better and different circumstances, but, I can't say I'm awfully terrified of your company, considerin'."

"I'll try and take that as a compliment," he chuckles as you take another drink.

You have to shake your head lightly and avoid coughing at the strength of the whiskey, with Arthur's focus still trained on you like a hawk's.

You two stay like that for some time, breathing in and out, passing the bottle of whiskey. But you don't share any words. 

Arthur is still figuring out whatever thoughts are going through his head as he eyes you, but you do the same. You two are obviously gauging each other in this wordless exchange, sizing the other up, trying to guess at their intentions and what’s to come.

As you two perform your dance, you can start to feel the whiskey take the edge off of you, and you slump back into your chair, feeling your doubts begin to weigh you to it.

Despite Arthur’s initial reluctance, you know what he is here for. What your current situation at hand is.

And so, with a bit of morbid curiosity, you break your silence.

"What do you do to a debtor who can't pay?"

Arthur's expression turns sour at that, and his eyes darken a little. But you don't look away, and refuse to show any fear as he straightens up in his chair, lightly clearing his throat. 

"Well, uh, not sure, really," Arthur rubs at the back of his neck then, and you can tell he is trying to spare you the truth, "I have to come back with somethin'. Not to be dismissive of your situation, ma'am, but fifty dollars is—"

"Yeah, I know," you say with bitterness in your voice, "Fifty dollars for some medicine and a doctor who practices being a crook more so than anythin’ else... Glad to see it paid off for my father."

Arthur's eyes narrow at your words, "You took the loan for your father?"

"Couldn't afford him to be seen and to get medicine otherwise... I sold everything I could up until now, tryin' to get him better," Arthur's expression falls at that, and you have to look away so that you don't lose control again, "That man you are collectin' for, he was my only option left. And now, I got a loan I can't pay, my father’s six feet under dirt, and the collector is in my house."

Arthur doesn't say anything to that, and you hiss as you take another long swig from the bottle of whiskey.

"So, I want you to actually bother to tell me, Arthur," you say pointedly, "What do you really do with a debtor that can't pay?"

He is silent, for a moment. But you refuse to look away. If he's got to collect his due in some way, you'll at least be just as stubborn as to know how.

He almost looks uncomfortable, but you do not feel pity for him as he does for you.

"Well, I'd more than likely have to beat 'em..." he says finally, words soft but his gaze hardened, "That, or just take anythin' of value."

"You plan on doin' any of that?"

He lets out a quick breath, "Don't think I could, miss..."

"Then what can you do?" you ask sharply, "Because I know you can't just sweep that under the rug. You said you'd have to come back with somethin' right?"

He nods, looking at you wearily.

"What could you take back?"

Arthur breathes in deeply, and rubs at his chin, "Well, suppose anything that can be sold or traded in some way. It's not always cash that people pay back with, but as long as it's somethin'."

A little bit of hope flares within you, "So things like animal pelts, is what you're sayin'?"

Arthur nods briskly, "Yeah. People have done that before... You got anythin' like that?"

"Used to, sold 'em though... Don't even have any of dad's trophies left. I could try and get some new ones, but," you sigh and lift the hem of your skirt, to which Arthur's eyes go comically wide— it almost makes you laugh, but you are quick to pull the fabric back down, now having removed your gun from where you had it stashed secretly along your mid thigh, "My cattleman has seen better days."

"Shit," Arthur blinks a few times before focusing on the rusted revolver, and he takes it from where you had set it on the table, examining it, "Does this thing even shoot anymore?"

"Probably not, but even in proper condition I wouldn't want to hunt with it anyways. I’d ruin whatever I shot," you explain, to which Arthur's eyes narrow, "And, I doubt that you'd lend me a gun to do so with."

His chest rumbles briefly with laughter, "All I got is a shotgun with me, so I doubt you'd be able to get anythin' nice outta that."

You sigh in defeat, and shake your head, "Huntin' is really all I can do, Mr. Morgan. I'm rather good at it, and I could start makin' my debt up that way... But... There's no way I could do this right now. Not with you here needin' somethin' to leave with other than my word..." 

At that, you pause, and a rather terrifying prospect comes into your head.

But, like with your luck of the draw lately, there isn't many other options than what little you have at hand. 

So, with a hard set tone to your voice, you ask, "What if you came back with me?"

Silence.

You can see Arthur processing the words, with his lips parting softly, and he blinks as he tries to rationalize what is assuredly the most insane thing you have ever uttered in your life.

Swallowing, you try to smooth it over.

"Listen, Mr. Morgan, there is no way I could pay you back today. I don't have anythin', and I mean that. And fifty dollars? There's no way I could repay that back in some way other than actually earning it back—"

Abruptly, Arthur stands then, immediately shaking his head and moving his arms in a motion that only amplifies his refusal, "No. No— that's not happenin'—"

"If you can beat people to near death or ransack their livelihoods, I'm sure you can make them earn every dollar back," you huff with some ire, and that makes Arthur narrow his gaze on you, "I've got no way to pay you. This loan was the only money I've had in quite some time, and I already spent it on that wretched doctor in Blackwater. Look what good it got me. This is my only option, 'part from killin' me and callin' it a loss, of course."

Arthur pales a little at that, which is somewhat surprising considering you are certain this man has put many a body under leagues of soil, "I'm not killin' ya, that's for damn sure, so don't go talkin' like I am."

"Then what other choice do you have apart from takin' me back? Because I'm gonna go ahead and let you in on somethin'— my bed is made. I took this debt. And far worse things can happen to me than if I come back with you to try and manage some sort of way I can make it up. If you're worried about my well-being and safety, well, you're a bit too late to step in for that."

The man's face is hardened in expression, as though he were tasting something sour and foul. You hold his gaze, not faltering on your hill whatsoever.

You knew your fate was sealed the moment you scratched your name into that ledger and took the money. It may not be ending up the way you thought it would, not in the slightest, but you aren't in any shock that this is the corner you've found yourself in.

And, as Arthur calms only just a little, you can tell that he understands that too.

"I don't know if you wanna run with us, in debt or not," Arthur rubs at his nape, looking decidedly unsure as he drawls, "We're not exactly kind people, and we don't exactly do kind things."

"I could gather that from what little I've seen thus far. But like it matters no way," you wave a dismissive hand and down the rest of the whiskey with a wince before heaving out a resigned sigh, "Listen, if you don't come back without any penny or good to make up for my loan, somethin' worse will come of me. I'm sure that, by your own description, someone else would be willing to show me that lack of kindness in your stead."

"I could— you—" Arthur stops himself, thinking better of what he was going to say before shaking his head, and quietly hissing, "Shit..."

"Just take me to Mr. Strauss and we'll talk. I'm sure he'd be eager to discuss business," you stand, and you look back at the rest of the cabin with a sense of finality, "Whatever happens after this point, simply happens. I've made peace with my fate, it doesn't matter if you do."

Even at your insistence, Arthur still hesitates. 

Why exactly, you don't know. It's odd— to see someone who was sent to bring violence, to steal, to kill if he had to once he was guided your way, be so conscious of your well-being. 

It is a juxtaposition that you can't wrap your head around, not even as Arthur stands from his seat with a grim look about his face.

"Got anythin' to take wit ya?"

You shake your head, your words dark as you explain, "All I had left is buried outside."

Arthur drags a hand over his face, and presses his lips together before nodding to himself.

"Fine," he says gruffly, almost too cold for how he's been towards you so far, and he immediately walks past you to head to the door, "But you don't do or say a damn thing, are we clear?"

Behind his back, you roll your eyes lightly, but agree, "Yes sir."

You exit the cabin, finding that the rain has finally decided to stop as the clouds still roll overhead. The foliage and branches are still dripping though, as Arthur heads to his horse, his boots squelching in the fresh mud as he makes his way over to his hitched blue roan.

He is quick to get on the saddle, jumping up and moving his leg over to get seated in one fluid motion. He fixes his hat, and then his gaze on you, waiting.

You step over to D'or, and you're just about to climb onto the saddle when Arthur's concerned voice stops you.

"That's your horse?"

A small flash of fury burns through you, and you don't miss the slight judgement in his tone as you pivot to face him, his blue eyes training on the accusing juts of D'or's ribs and hips.

"Yes," you glare at him then, and mount up nonetheless.

"Sure it's gonna make it on the ride over?" Arthur asks.

Your blood goes white hot, and you can help the offended noise that escapes you at the words.

Unfazed, Arthur only raises his brow, and with a harsh grit of your teeth, you can already tell he's doubting whatever answer is going to come past your lips.

"She may be suffering from my lack, Mr. Morgan," you hiss, and you don't miss the way Arthur's lips slightly tick into the hint of a smile at your hissed spittle, "but D'or here is an amazing horse, even when she has had to endure just how rough things have been these past few months. She will make it, because she already has despite everything so far."

Raising his hands in mock defense, Arthur shakes his head before grabbing onto the reigns of his own horse, "Just makin' sure, ma'am," he pokes, and you heave a frustrated breath as he turns towards the path that leads out from your cabin, "Alright, we've got a camp not too far from here. It's a little bit from the Pacific Union Camp, so go ahead and prepare yourself. We have a little bit of a ride."

You take one last look at your cabin — at the fresh and old grave plots outside — and feel the cold snip of the air sink into your bones.

You know that, without it being said, that this will be the last time that you see where you were born, where you grew up, where both your parents are buried. 

It feels too shallow then, for something so significant to simply start fading with distance as you force yourself to walk away.

But you know, deep down, that there is nothing left for you here anymore. At least, nothing that could change where you are heading now as you eye Arthur's back in front of you. 

This is your life now. And, even if this wasn't the situation your father wanted for you, you remember your promise to him to go live your life, and to not hold on.

So you let go.

"What a perfect place for the troop you run with, I'm sure," you snap, and your quick to match D'or up side to side with Arthur's horse, attempting to ignore the way your chest aches— it earns you a good, questioning side look from Arthur, "Or do I happen to be off on that one?"

Arthur doesn't rise to your bite, somewhat surprisingly, and he is serious when he replies, setting his horse into a good canter as you head towards the main road.

"It would be in your best interest if you were. I'm not gonna lie or paint it pretty, miss. You're walkin' into somethin' that most folk would rather avoid their whole lives if they could."

"Not like I can avoid it. But what do you mean by that, exactly?"

Again, Arthur spurs his horse into a light gallop once the trees break.

You match D'or up in speed with no issue, despite the way he tries to side eye her without you noticing, "Well, miss, not that I'm the type to really throw our name out there like this, but you heard of the Van Der Linde gang?"

The surprise you feel is genuine, and Arthur doesn't miss the way you react to that. He is quick to turn his eyes to the muddy, hoof-beaten path before you, his jaw pointedly tightening.

"Y-Yes," you stammer, and you quickly try to get ahold of your nerves as your throat goes dry, "Pretty sure everyone in New Austin and over has heard of you at some point."

"And for nothin' good, I'm sure."

It hadn't been. 

Robberies, theft, even murder. 

You've heard a lot, and have read a lot, about the Van Der Linde gang. You've even seen wanted posters up near the sheriff's office over the years. You remember seeing Dutch's once, and an older man whose name you can't remember. And maybe one or two more here and there.

Now that you think of it, you wonder if you maybe saw Arthur's once, and what charge was listed underneath his sketch.

Silence lapses between you two as you ride on, and you can tell that Arthur isn't too pleased as he works the reigns, his expression as stormy as the overcast sky above.

Maybe that's why he was so hesitant to bring you, because of the gang he rides with. The gang that you unknowingly borrowed fifty dollars from and owed.

God, what did you get yourself into?

But before you can ponder it for long, a stranger passes you on the road.

He nods to you before looking over to Arthur, and you don't miss the way Arthur hides his face under the brim of his hat while under his attention.

The outlaw still sends a brief and polite greeting to the man when he says hello, but he refuses to look up until he is past you, and out of sight.

Curiously, you bite, "You wanted right now, Mr. Morgan?"

Arthur sends you a sharp look, but you aren't fazed by it. At your dismissal, he snorts shortly before speaking.

"Sure are itchin' to get yourself into some trouble, ain't ya?"

"Guess it's safe to assume that there's a poster or two with your name and face on it, then."

Now annoyed, Arthur sports a tight grip onto his reigns, "No, not here. Not yet, anyways..." he stops himself there, not wanting to divulge anything else as he changes the subject a little, "While we're not good people, I want you to know we're not heartless savages, either. Not like some gangs you've heard of. We may rob, loiter, maybe kill a man when he deserves it, but we don't go 'round murderin' folk simply 'cause we can. We have rules."

You can' they but laugh curtly at that, steering D'or around a curve as you keep up with the jilted man beside you, "Criminals with morals, ain't that a fine contradiction?"

"Never said we made any sense, just that we don't make monsters outta ourselves," the outlaw explains with some defense, "Thought that would be somethin' you'd like to hear, considerin' you’re about to keep company with ‘em."

"Should I be flattered that the criminals I'm indebted indefinitely to are apparently good ones?"

Despite your mocking, Arthur's voice is dark when he replies, "I mean it, miss. There's a few other gangs that would've done awful by you, even if you had no debt to ‘em. Not sayin' you drew the best straw, but we ain't the shortest, is what I'm tellin' you. You could've done a lot worse by yourself."

You’re about to fire off with something else, but you let the words die on your tongue as you try and look ahead of you instead.

The trees break out and start to dwindle into the plains again, and you're sad to see the ancient trunks and even the scents of the pines go.

D'or even knocks her head back, making a sorrowful noise as she gallops on, never quite having gone this way before during the entire time you lived near Tall Trees. 

You know you haven't.

"We should be passin' Manzanita Post soon," Arthur announces then, and he makes sure to give his horse a good pat on its flank before adding, "You been out here before?"

His question is somewhat unexpected, but you shake your head as you answer, "Not really. At least, not that I can remember. Maybe when I was a whole lot younger, with my father. We would track bison occasionally. Stopped after my mom died, and they starting going scarce. That was many years ago, when I was really young."

It puts a look onto Arthur's face, and you choke back a mirthful smirk at his wide eyes of disbelief.

"You hunted bison as a kid?"

"I hunted lots of things," you tell him with pride as you let your smile go, and you look across the plains of dry grass dancing in the wind, gesturing a hand out to the expanse of rolling, golden waves, "This land was as much of my home as that cabin. I've hunted rabbits, fowl, wolves, even the occasional bear that terrorized Tall Trees. My dad made sure that I knew what I was doing, and that he didn't send his daughter off into the world not knowing how to at least make it a night in the wild."

Arthur is smiling at you when you look back at him, and you can tell he's impressed. You wouldn’t admit it outright, but it puts a bit of wind under your wings.

"Well, I'll have to say, you don't exactly look the type. Not in a bad way, just that you somewhat seem like one of those women who value the high society way of life over gettin' their hands dirty every once n' a while."

At that, you bark a laugh, "Oh, no no, Mr. Morgan. While my dad did teach me everything from hunting to reading and writing, I never once fancied myself a lawyer's wife, or as precious china only to be taken out to parties or where I'd impress the best. I think I'd die myself before that ever became my way of life."

"Me either, miss," Arthur chuckles out, "I had a personal run in with high society women and its folk once before. Left a bad taste, that's for sure."

You laugh in your throat, a soft sound, as you pass what looks to be a small railway station and some buildings. You guess that is Manzanita Post.

The road signage lets you know you're heading the right way as you see the arrowed marker, with Arthur guiding you and D'or in the direction it points to Pacific Union Camp.

You and Arthur don't share another word, letting conversation fall into a companionable silence as you ride on. 

As some time passes, and the sun moves overhead like the vultures that stalk the skies, you watch as yet again the landscape changes.

Gradually, the plains give out to sparse woodlands, and to trees you read about lining the marshes, with an odd moss hanging down in clumps from their branches. The air feels muggy and dense, and your dress feels like an itchy second skin as you begin to see some stagnant bits of water lie the sides of the road.

It only makes everything more alien to you, especially when you see a few buildings off in the distance, bustling with life.

And, after so much quiet between you two, you nearly jump at the sudden sound of Arthur's voice.

"Hey,” he starts, “it’s not far now at all. Just at that fork we're gonna turn. There's a clearing up there, hidden off the main road. That's where we’re set up."

"You're not staying in town?" you ask out of confusion.

Arthur shakes his head, "No, miss. Too many of us to. 'Sides', it's better for the likes of us to remain on the outside of any kind of society than to live in it. Makes it a whole hell of a lot easier."

It's spoken with a little bitterness, but you don't comment on it. Instead, you guide D'or into where the road forks, like Arthur mentioned. 

But suddenly, with a quick spur, Arthur pulls a little ahead of you, and he turns his horse in just the right way that nearly cuts you off.

You have to harshly slow D'or down to avoid having you hit and run into each other then. At your handling, D'or makes a noise of frustration as the bit pulls on her, and you can’t help but mirror her displeasure.

"Hey!" you shout out of irritation.

You’re just about to snap at his poor riding when Arthur sends you a look over his shoulder, and he forces you both to slow as the path thins to a singular trail.

You’re still fuming, but Arthur shouts over his shoulder, hitting you off yet again.

"Don't say a damn word, and stick close. There's a patrol up here, and the only way you're not gonna get shot by them is because you're with me."

Sobering instantly, you drop your frustration and comply, falling behind Arthur and his horse without any fuss.

The outlaw then trots his horse up the slight incline of the trail, slowing before he whistles out into the woods that surround you.

A few seconds tick by, and your head turns to where you hear a small twig snap to the right of you, up near the top of the incline.

A very gruff, scratchy voice replies in turn, "Arthur, that you?"

"I'd sure hope so, considerin'," Arthur snarks, "but I got someone else with me."

Arthur slows his horse to a complete stop, and you are quick to heel D'or as well as you come up behind him. Your attention cuts back to the incline though, and to the sound of someone approaching.

The brush parts, and a man with black stubble and sharp, slitted eyes come out with a carbine in hand. 

He's eying you, and you don't miss the way he slightly puts his gun into firing position, hesitant and distrusting as Arthur gets off his horse. It makes your salvia thick to swallow, but you remain quiet and motionless as Arthur requested.

"Thought you were done with nickel ladies," the man says without pause or nerve, and you turn a violent shade of scarlet as Arthur stiffens.

"Marston, you dumb bastard," Arthur groans, his drawl turning sharp with irritation, "It ain't like that at all. She's here to see Strauss about a debt."

Marston tilts his chin up, slinging his carbine back over his shoulder as regards you one last time, not bothering to hide his distrust, "He lookin’ to owe her a nickel too?"

The murderous look that Arthur sends to the other man makes a shiver travel down your spine.

Marston remains nonplussed to it, shrugging as he begins to walk away.

"Figures you'd know about that, Marston," Arthur yells at his back as he walks away, "I'm sure Abigail got a gold bar off you before all was said n’ done."

Marston flicks his middle finger towards Arthur, not even bothering to turn around as he goes back to wandering the through the woods with his gun in his hand.

You are still sitting on D'or, cheeks burning as you’re unsure of what to do.

Arthur sighs haggardly, rubbing a hand down his face in a way that speaks of a nursed fatigue. With an apologetic look, he turns to you, his lips set into a partial grimace. 

You can tell he's about to say something, more than likely to try and make up for what happened, but you shake your head, and get off of D'or to stand beside him.

"Just... lead me to Strauss."

He hesitates, but when you send a look that offers no debate on the matter, Arthur nods and gestures to a path on the incline in front of him.

“This way, miss."

He walks in front of you then, and you're grateful that he lets the comments that Marston made go without much fuss.

You'd rather forget that you were just called woman for hire, particularly when you're about to be at the mercy of a wanted gang of criminals.

As promised, Arthur guides you towards a small gap between the trees as the incline flattens out into a small clearing.

You look around as you pass through, seeing a few wagons and pitched tents in what is a secret alcove here in the woods.

A few fires smoke about the area, their crackling mixing among the light banter from those within the gang. Nervously, you walk a little closer to Arthur, not missing the way the few you pass by eye you and quiet as Arthur leads you past them. 

You're an outsider, a stranger— with Arthur or not, that could mean very bad business for you, and you are not unaware of what exactly that can mean for you.

Before you attention can linger on them however, it's snatched away by something you didn't expect to hear— music.

To your left, there's a larger tent, one that is open-faced to the rest of the camp. Within it, there's a phonograph, something that completely surprises you as you take in the light sound of symphonies emitting from it.

The discovery almost makes you smile, but what's beside it soon has it dying before it has a chance to even stretch your lips.

It's a man, one slightly older than Arthur, who's dressed in a fine red and black vest, nursing a cigar as he leans on one of tent's posts. 

He doesn't say anything, but his eyes are slits from where they track you. The cigar leaves his lips to let a large bellow of smoke blow out into the air before he places it back in his mouth for another drag, all of his focus on you. It's obvious he's studying you, just as you are studying him, and that's when you begin to feel a sense of familiarity.

You recognize him, faintly, from the posters that have cropped up in Blackwater over the years. 

He's the infamous Dutch Van Der Linde, the man you know who has held his throne of stolen gold and spent bullets for around twenty years now.

It is almost unnatural with how his presence is like lead, heavy and gravitational, one demanding of respect. You feel a slight shiver up your spine as you swallow hard, edging to break your gaze with him as he stares at you— as though he were a hawk eyeing a mouse from his perch against his tent.

Out of reflex, you keep your head down. You know that challenging this man or giving him a reason for suspicion will be that last thing that you need to do, especially with your situation. 

Because no matter what, you are in his debt, and the law doesn't much care for matters held between debtors and those who are owed. And laws matter much less to those you know are more than willing to break them.

Despite all of this, Arthur is oblivious to this small exchange between you and Dutch, and he guides you to a small side-lean tent.

Thankfully, Dutch lets you pass without issue, and you look over your shoulder to see him finally break away, pacing back into the confines of his tent.

Exhaling, you turn back to where Arthur stands, lowly clearing his throat.

In front of the small, dwindling fire, there is a familiar old man resting on the log. You recognize him as the man you borrowed the money from while you were in Blackwater around a week ago, and he scribbles away in his ledger.

"Strauss," Arthur says then, and the old man turns to peak over his shoulder, smiling as he recognizes Arthur— the expression changes, however, when his eyes land to you, "Change of plans."

Strauss is quiet, and he looks at you down from his nose, his eyes peering sharply through the small lenses of his glasses. He almost looks like a crow, ready to peck away at you as you stand awkwardly under his observation. 

You try not to feel anymore offset than you already are as he sets his ledger down, and stands to fully face you.

"Ms. Broce," Strauss wipes his hands down the length of his suit, fixing it slightly before stepping towards you, hand outstretched, "To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you again?"

You stare at his offered hand, but do not shake it, "You know why I'm here. There's no need to be holdin' up facades of pleasantry. Especially when you sent Arthur my way to collect by whatever means necessary."

Strauss nods briefly, and drops his hand back to his side, his expression cold. You can see that his warm facade is not going to make an appearance for you anymore.

"I see... So, I'm supposing there is some issue? It is not like Arthur to bring a debtor back to me. In fact, I believe you are the first," you glance at the outlaw for a second while Strauss sets away, going back to his log to grab his ledger and sit down, albeit facing your way this time, "So, girl, what is it makes you so special?"

The way he speaks is condescending, and you take in a sharp breath while you bite your tongue. Arthur doesn't miss the way you ball a hand into a fist at your side, trying to keep yourself calm for what is going to be a wager on your future.

"I owe you fifty dollars, but I have no way to pay it back," you start, and Strauss raises a brow as you continue, "That loan I took, that was the first time I've held money in months. My father is— was..."

Your correction leaves slight waiver in your voice, one that both Strauss and Arthur acknowledge. You take a deep breath before you continue.

"He was very sick... I already sold anything of value before I even borrowed money from you. And that loan I took, every penny of it went to a botched treatment from a doctor in Blackwater. I don't have anythin' to pay you back with... Which is why Arthur brought me here. So we could talk."

Strauss eyes you for a moment, and you feel the starts of scorn and greed in his gaze. You only feel more contempt for the man before you, at the way you can tell he enjoys the power he has over you all because of some money lent in his name. 

It makes you sick to your stomach, because it doesn't bode well for what is to come.

"And that is worthy of taking her here how, Arthur?" Strauss says blankly, turning his attention to the outlaw who is glaring daggers beside you, "If the criteria for a meeting with me was failure to repay what I am owed, I should have an office instead of an errand boy—"

"Strauss," Arthur growls in warning, and you nearly jump at the unsaid threat in Arthur's voice.

Despite Strauss trying to remain stoic, you can tell it does get to him. 

Because after all, he sends Arthur to do the dirty work of his practice for a reason. 

He is undoubtedly a crook and tyrant in his own right, but he is nothing to worry about if your name remained unwritten in his ledger. Even if it was, it wasn't Strauss who put fear into the men and women who found themselves in his debt. 

And it is obvious for the way Strauss swallows, attempting to cover it up with poorly fixing his collar, as to who really made Strauss' loaning something to dread.

"Mc. Broce," Strauss says then, forcing his words and tone to remain even as he looks back to you, "What could you possibly propose in light of your situation?"

"I—" you start, but you quiet as Strauss looks at you, and you worry the hem of your sleeve between some of your fingers, "I could offer somethin' else... My father was a renowned hunter and trapper, and taught me everthin' he knew. I also know how to sew, among other things... I could offer up my skills and what they can provide as payment. It's just— I don't have the means to do so either on my own..."

There is a pause between what you say, and Strauss' reaction. But it doesn't take long before his lips twist in a mocking smile, and a berating laugh rattles his chest like the way a beehive rustles ominously once disturbed.

"You want to offer work so you can hunt and sew off your debt?" Strauss chides, and your face burns as he openly scalds you as though you were a naive child being brought into reality, "My my, Ms. Broce. I must say, this meeting is quite entertaining. But I have no interest in your theatrics. I want what I’m owed, and I know how I am to get it."

Before he can continue, Arthur is grabbing onto his lapels, and lifting him up from where he was sitting on the log.

Behind you, the camp goes silent, and you can feel everyone's eyes shift to where you three are at the end of the camp. You stand back in shock, practically frozen as Strauss crumples in on himself in Arthur's enraged vice.

Strauss makes a soft noise of fear, and he is wincing as Arthur looks down upon him from under the brim of his hat, the outlaw's hands white knuckled from where they gripping onto the poor bastard.

"I think I already made it clear that you were to behave yourself," he says in a grim drawl, and your breath hitches at the ice in his words.

"But, Arthur," Strauss tries, glancing at you for only a moment before Arthur shakes his attention away from you and back to him, "She cannot pay us! That is no way for us to make it back!"

Just as quickly as he had snatched Strauss up, Arthur drops him onto the ground, leaving the old man to make a small cry of pain as he lands harshly onto the dirt.

He coughs a little, his once pristine suit now covered in a dusting of rusty soil as it riles up about him.

"Ms. Broce lost her father today," Arthur hisses with straight venom, "I came to her cabin, upon your request, to find her havin' just buried him. She ain't got nothin', and I mean nothin', Strauss.”

The old man begins to crawl backwards from Arthur, shoving his glasses back up his nose from where they had nearly fallen off his face. He scrambles as Arthur steps forward to keep pace with his scurrying.

"Now I know we ain't good people, but surely we ain't monsters. At least, when we don't need to be," Arthur takes another step forward, his voice dipping down an octave, "Isn't that right, Strauss?"

The man shudders a breath, unsure of what to do or say as he shivers from the terror Arthur instills within him.

From behind you, you can hear people in the camp gathering and whispering, commenting on the spectacle as you try to process all that is happening.

At the lack of response, Arthur moves even closer, much like a wolf with a rabbit about to be trapped in its maw as he grits out, "Do I need to be, Strauss?"

His hand nears his revolver. 

"N-No!" Strauss stutters, and he stops crawling when his back roughly meets the log he'd been insulting you from only some moments ago, "Ms. Broce can work off her debt with us! I—" Strauss's eyes dart to you, and he nods shakily, smiling weakly as you look down upon him, "I will fix it! There will be no need to push this any further!"

At that, Arthur lets up, and you feel like you're going to get whiplash from how he goes from menacing to smiling.

He’s looking as homely as ever as he laughs, clipping you on the shoulder.

"Now that's the spirit, Strauss! Glad to see you two could work somethin' out!"

Your mouth is agape, and you are trying to get a grip on what has happened as Arthur comes up to you, and puts a hand on your waist.

"I'll go get her taken care of, now that your business is settled," he says to a mortified Strauss, who is already trying to hitch himself back onto the log with shaky and unsteady limbs.

You blink, still reeling.

Arthur starts to move you, and you mostly comply, but you try to look over your shoulder to see Strauss is holding onto his ledger, and scribbling like mad within it.

"Arthur—" you start, but he is quick to shush you.

"Don't," he says only to you, tone leaving no room as he gets closer to your ear as the others in the camp stare without any shame, "Let's get you settled before anythin' else."

His hand moves to the small of your back to push you forward, and he is quick to move you along. He doesn't meet the eyes of your spectators like you do, and you're sure your face is as red as wine as he rushes you away from Strauss' tent.

He takes you more near the front of the camp, next to one of the few wagons that reside within the clearing. There's already one tent sent up, with a singular cot and a few boxes under the canopy of cloth. Going by the weeds that grow up between the wooden slats, you can tell it's been here for a good while.

"You'll be stayin' next to me," Arthur tells you then, and he finally lets up and removes his hand from you, heading towards the tent in front of you both, "Just go ahead and make yourself comfortable. I'm gonna grab what I need from Ms. Grimshaw, and I'll be back."

You don't move though, and you look at the tent before you, unsure.

Pointedly, Arthur sighs, and comes back to you, guiding you again until your seated on the cot.

You feel almost numb, trying to process what has gone on, but failing miserably.

"I know that was a lot to see," the outlaw murmurs, and he hesitates, like he wants to say or do something else before he leans back, thinking better of it, "I didn't mean to scare ya, if I did."

You shake your head, not sure what to say exactly after what you just experienced, "It's— It's fine. It's not like I don't know who or what you are."

Your choice of words make Arthur frown deeply, but he doesn't say anything more. He goes to step away, looking perturbed before he glances at you over his shoulder.

"I'll be right back, promise."

You nod in acknowledgement, wrapping your arms around yourself. He only waits a second more before looking away, and walking back out towards the heart of the camp.

Your eyes follow his back until he disappears behind a mass of other tents, and you let out a shaky breath. You put your face in your hands, breathing out unsteadily as you feel the looming threat of panic lingering in your chest.

Today has assuredly been the worst in your life thus far, and you only wish for a reprieve as you are given the first moment alone since you buried your father that morning.

Because here you are, away from home, stuck in the Van Der Linde gang with your future as uncertain as ever. 

You can hear them yelling amongst each other, words about as harsh as your uneven breaths. You can hear them joke and laugh about what had just happened between Arthur and Strauss, all mocking him relentlessly.

It's no reassurance, and it only makes your fears grow for when you inevitably have to face them.

What will they make you do?

What will you have to put up with?

Would they berate you? Would they abuse you?

Would they make you commit crimes in their stead?

Kill someone? 

You know Arthur refused, and seemed almost offended at the prospect, but you begin to worry. Because it is obvious that not everyone here is like him.

Will the men make you lay with them? Will you have to earn those nickels as Marston had said when you arrived?

Would they just kill you, and leave you to the buzzards?

The uncertainty makes our chest seize, and you hiss in a sharp breath as tears burn in your eyes. 

You ache for the days that you spent with your father, and your mother. When things were simple, innocent, and clean.

When all you worried for was if the rabbits caught your scent, or if mother caught you trying to catch a snake again. 

You long for your cabin, and not the tent you linger in now like a ghost. You feel no warmth here, no safety, no future.

You feel as though you failed your father already, with your life having been signed off to this gang and to whatever they believe would repay your debts.

What a wonderful thing your life has become.

"Miss?"

Your head shoots up, and you blearily take in the sight of Arthur looking at you with concern, his arms full of a roll of canvas and other supplies as he stands just outside of the tent.

He sets it all down when he takes in the appearance of your tears, and comes forward. You feel hollow, almost possessed, unable to protest or register anything but him kneeling down before you, a slight frown souring his face.

You really take him in then— with the light crows feet crinkling around his green eyes. The slight hump in his nose that hints to it having once been broken. His stubble that entirely covers his sharp jawline, apart from small scars that cross the jut of his chin.

He seems so rough, so ragged, that it almost feels out of place with how gentle he is with you.

He brushes your tears away as your throat aches, and you sniffle as he lets out a small sigh. Wordlessly, he takes off his tan coat, and settles it around you, careful and slow as though he would startle you otherwise.

You grab onto the worn material, breathing in the scent of firewood and smoke, letting it settle you some as Arthur takes a step back, now only dressed in that familiar blue-striped shirt.

"Just sit here and gather yourself," he says quietly, voice completely void of any judgement as you look up at him, "I'll take care of everything else."

You go to stand, your voice scratchy as you protest, "A-Arthur—"

He places a hand on your shoulder, light and tender, but it stops you all the same. Your lips part slightly, and you consider what to say, but you can't find the words as you settle back down onto the cot.

"Don't worry 'bout it. You got enough to fret about to turn those hairs of yours gray already," he smiles, warm and kind, "I can handle a lean-to. Just try and relax as best you can."

Despite his kindness, you can tell he isn't going to let you dispute his decision, so you nod, and wrap his jacket tighter around yourself.

"I'll get ya when I'm done," he promises, and heads back out of the tent to grab his supplies.

This time, you don't watch him go, but rather you stare at the crumpled, dead grass below your feet.

You hear him leave, and it leaves you to wonder why he is showing such compassion to you.

Why, when he could've beat you. Killed you. Took what little he could. Made you lay with him. Let Strauss abuse his power over you. Let you suffer.

Why?

He could've been as cold as he was to Strauss. He had no reason or motive to offer what he has to you, to do what he has done.

You're sure that had it been anyone other than Arthur to have been sent your way, you would be dead, or on the brink of death, for the money you owe.

It was because of Arthur that you're getting this chance, your only chance, at making it after your father didn't. 

So why?

Why was Arthur Morgan showing you humanity, when he was labeled an animal for the way he truly lived?

It was definitely a riddle to ponder over, and one that would take time to figure out and solve.

But, with the way your life has changed in only a matter of a day — your father, Arthur finding you, him bringing you here and forcing Strauss to give you a second chance — you know that now, there will only be time for you to piece things together.

And almost foolishly, you begin to hope — as you slowly begin to drift, your body settling on the rickety cot below — that Arthur Morgan will keep proving to be the first good break you have had in the longest time.


	2. Blackwater II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And what if I am?” he growls. 
> 
> You can tell he’s testing the waters, gauging you. You’re new— a stranger. You could easily throw his entire plan out of the window if you ran into town to run your mouth. 
> 
> And, going by the way his hand rests on the ivory handle of his revolver, a threat needing no words, you know that he intends for that to never happen. 
> 
> You swallow thickly, raising your chin as you eye his hand on his gun, forcing yourself to speak evenly, “Then it’s none of my business.” 
> 
> A moment passes, his eyes still hard on you. He takes another drag from his cigar, only relaxing some once he lets out yet another cloud of smoke. You refuse to tremble or have your resolve crumble before him, but your blank expression falls away to one of confusion as Dutch begins to chuckle. 
> 
> And as it grows into a loud, booming laugh, you’re sure that you must look manic. 
> 
> His hand leaves his revolver, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he sheds his guise as quickly as he’d put it on. 
> 
> “I must say, Ms. Broce, you are _quite_ the treat indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty! So here it is! The long awaited second update! 
> 
> I have been so excited to share this with you all, and to begin stepping into what I hope is a deep and contrasting take on the RDR series, and the world it creates. 
> 
> As for this update here, it was supposed to finish us up and carry us into "Chapter 1" of the game, but unfortunately, I plot like a hoe so there was way too much going on, and I had to cut this into pieces. The plot is really going to pick up in the next chapter, as this prologue sets us up for it in the best of ways, but doesn't straight out the gate dive into the deep end on us.
> 
> With what little info we had in canon about pre-chapter 1 (as Arthur wrote very little about it in his journal), I have been filling in the blanks or creating something entirely to fill us in before we head into Colter and the rest of the mess that is to be the Van Der Linde gang's future. I've had so much fun creating certain characters and situations, and just making my own lore about it! Which, I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> Expect a few twists and turns, and for there to be a few surprises along the way. ;)
> 
> And, of course, how could I forget a few notes here?  
> \- Based upon a few entries in Arthur's journal, a few happenings are loosely based on some pre-chapter 1 occurrences. As for a timeline, I had to make up my own altogether, so just expect some wild shit.  
> \- It is mentioned that Reverend Swanson has an addiction to morphine. This is canon, but not explicitly stated. It is something that you can discover while rummaging through Swanson's items in camp.  
> \- I promise I don't hate Ms. Grimshaw, but I feel like I've written her out to be quite the bitch. But, I try to point out that she is stressed, and from what I can tell, she gets very snippy and critical of the girls if something is bothering her in that capacity. So I promise I'm not on a Grimshaw hate train, she's just having a bad time of it.  
> \- Expect you and Arthur's relationship to be put to the test already by part 3 of the prologue. You'll see what I mean. But just know that Arthur is a dumb dumb and words are hard. I promise I'm just not setting it up to where it goes to shit and slow burn means I make him hate you or something.
> 
> Alrighty! That's it!
> 
> I just wanted to also let you guys know that each update is intended to be large and in charge, so while it may take me some time before posting, there's a lot to unpack with each new update. In the meantime between uploads, I'll always try to respond to comments here or anything you guys send my way through Tumblr as quickly as possible!
> 
> Y'all have been so supportive and I can't thank you enough!
> 
> Enjoy!~

At the convergence of land and sky, the sun begins to rise.

The dark of night shies away as it peaks over the snowy caps of the mountains, illuminating the world in sharp contrasts of orange and light. It casts the lake it now overlooks, giving life to the fog that lingers over the water, animating its ghostly dance.

Standing in the shallows and the haze are two deer, one buck and one doe.

The buck is drinking, head ducked and nose under the cool waters that lap below. The doe, however, stands alert, her large eyes seeking the shore for any sprouting patches of grass to sate her hunger.

Together, they have worked their way down from the mountains, attempting to escape the vice that the cold had. The journey has left her starving, and so when she finally spots the first few sprouts that promise the spring she longs for, she does not hesitate to leave the thirsty buck behind.

Carefully she edges forth, steps hesitant and precarious as she leaves the shallows and steps onto the pebbled banks of the lake. She listens, ears twitching as much as her eyes search the line of trees that frame the lake.

It takes a few moments to clear her paranoia, but once she deems it safe, she prances forward, closing in on the small growths with haste. Once close enough, she ducks her head, pulling at the newly sprouted grass with a delight she hasn’t carried in some weeks.

But, with her eagerness and celebration, she overlooks the predator lurking in the shadows.

A wolf, and one that is just as famished as she is.

Its eyes glow when the sunlight cuts into the tree line, its yellow irises like neon among the black trunks its fur blends into. It licks its lips, eyeing the doe and stalking it from the underbrush.

A twig snaps under its paw.

Startled, the doe instantly lifts her head, her eyes pinned towards the source of the sudden noise. Already her breathing is rapid, her heart pounding away in her chest and her legs trembling with the promise of running. The wolf stills completely, the only sign of its presence being the soft clouds that its exhales create.

The world is quiet, and serene. But it is a fragile peace, one that can be broken within a moment, and by one minor twitch.

From his spot in the lake, the buck continues drinking, unaware of the danger that resides only some yards away.

The doe leans her head forward, her gaze insistent as she tries to spot the predator she knows is there, but cannot see. More time lapses, lazy like the subtle waves upon the shore, billowing in tandem like the doe’s heart as it races.

And then, the wolf leaps forth, and attacks.

**\---**

You wake suddenly, your body nearly bolting upright.

The haze of sleep leaves you confused and blanking for a moment, until you are able to process the hand that gently stops you at your chest, and the low, gruff voice that speaks to you.

“Whoa, miss—”

The breath you release is sharp, and your eyes adjust enough to make out the faint outline of Arthur’s face in the dark.

He’s sitting on a wooden box beside the cot, a metal bowl in the hand that currently isn’t placed gingerly near your shoulder. His focus on you is humored, opposing the lag that you feel from having woken.

“You startle like a deer,” he jokes then, and you steal a baited breath, “Sleep well?”

“Good enough,” murmuring, you look towards the bowl in his hand, “Guess I slept through dinner?”

“Mostly. Pretty much everyone else has gone to bed, but, I saved ya some of Pearson’s stew. Figured you’d be hungry when you woke.”

Guilt tugs upon you, insistent and pressing as you regard the outlaw sitting parallel from you on his cot, knowing that his continued kindness was something he was not expected to give. Scrutinizing the food he brought to you, you attempted to try and not let it grow further and deeper.

Quietly, you grab onto the spoon, stirring the stew some as you mutter, “You didn’t have to.”

“Ain’t nothin’ miss...” Arthur pauses then, and he grows tender, his consideration of you shifting into one of pensive concern as he asks, “How ya feelin’?”

“Could be better, but I’m still kickin’, so I guess that counts for somethin’.”

A small smile plays Arthur’s lips at your words, and he ducks his head. But his eyes linger on you, almost telling of the thoughts that shift behind them.

“It sure does...”

You’re not exactly sure of what he’s up to, but you do not wish for anymore pity. For anymore favors. The man has done enough for you. More than enough. A part of you recoiled at the prospect of him doing more, at feeling like you were a charity case of some sorts. The other simply felt as though you were more of a leech than anything of worth to him, and all you did was take and take and take whenever he offered something to give.

But, knowing Arthur even as superficially as you do now — the man still in the likes of being a stranger — you have no doubt that the man would ever demand anything of you in restitution. He would only keep on chipping away, and showing you compassion where others gave you judgement or indifference, despite all of your protest at his continuous show of heart.

Because you are about as stubborn as you are unlucky, having been taught that a free hand is truly never free, and what you wanted to count on in life. And having him go above and beyond for you has done nothing but fray at your conscience like a glacier slowly passing over mountains, grinding down with immense pressure until a path was finally clear. What that give would be, you don’t know. Arthur would insist, and as would you. It would be two titans of a force colliding, battling and crumbling until the other finally gave way.

But you figure, the least you can do is to distract you both before whoever broke first.

Breaking away, you purposefully try to change the subject.

“What’s this supposed to be, anyways?”

“Deer. At least that’s what it was when I brought it to Pearson,” he huffs, “You’re lucky, though. Pearson managed to make it tolerable this time. Not gonna lie miss, you’re probably better off fixing yourself somethin’ if you can.”

You chuckle mutedly, “My father was like that. He could kill and bring you any type of any animal and it’d be perfect until he got to the kitchen. At that point, you were better off chancin’ it with a carcass.”

Arthur full on laughs at that, a deep rumble that resonates in the air. He shakes with it, and even in the dark, you can see how his eyes are alight with humor as his lips spread wide over his teeth. It’s infectious, and you can’t help but join in yourself around a spoonful.

It’s a good moment, but it doesn’t last.

Soon, it tempers down, and when it abandons you, it leaves a hollowness behind. Your mind lingers on your father, and it puts a sour taste that the stew could never manage into your mouth.

Once Arthur’s own giggles die down, he notices your stupor, and the beginning of a scowl pulls at his mouth. He considers you, eyes calculating.

With caution, he presses, “Hey, you okay?”

It takes a moment for you to find your tongue, but Arthur garners no impatience with you. He lets you take your time, and it’s something you greatly appreciate as you work yourself up.

You think of your father then, of the days you’d spend cooking what he’d managed to catch for you both. He was so proud, always telling you that you made him proud, and you feel the absence of that time and the man himself like a hole took up where your heart used to be.

Crestfallen, you finally mumble, “I just miss him.”

Your grip on the spoon is tight, and you glare at the grass below your feet, as though it would make a difference.

Across from you, the outlaw straightens. His hand curls up on his knee, and he shakes it a few times, piecing what he’s going to say together. You remain wordless, face drawn up in a dismal pout as a few moments pass between the two of you.

Eventually, Arthur figures his bit out, despite looking a bit misplaced as he speaks.

“He was a good man, I’m sure,” Arthur offers up.

Your lips nearly tick upward with his attempt at comforting you.

Softly, without chastising him, you point out with a small snort, “You never knew him, though...”

Arthur comes closer, and his smile is as warm as it is benevolent. You breathe past your chapped lips, wondering what he’s doing until he places a hand on your shoulder.

“I could gather as much, knowing the daughter he raised.”

At that, you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, feeling it sting just like your eyes. Arthur pointedly looks away, giving you some amount of privacy as he nods once to the dish in your hand.

“You’ll wanna eat up. You’re gonna have a day of it tomorrow with Ms. Grimshaw, I’m sure. Least you can get is a meal in ya before she comes barrelin’ ‘round.”

Sucking in a breath, you use the worn hem of your dress sleeve to wipe away at the few tears that managed to escape, and you try and catch up.

“M-Ms.Grimshaw?”

“She’s practically the heart of camp, keeps it runnin’ as best as it does. She’s a mean crow, though. Pretty sure that woman was born without a heart sometimes,” Arthur almost talks to himself then, but turns his focus back to you once you finish gathering yourself together, “You’ll be workin’ with the other girls in camp, which means she’ll be houndin’ you like nothin’ else. She rises early too, so I thought it’d be best if I went ahead and warned ya.”

At that, you groan as you portion a bit of the stew below, “She sounds like a treat.”

“She ain’t all bad, and has her good moments, don’t be fooled— but they’re few and far between these days...” he mutters before heaving a burdened sigh.

There’s something unsaid there, and what exactly is being sparred, you could never ponder. But Arthur’s shoulders fall some, and his brow is set heavily, like his thoughts were weighing them downward before he forces himself out of it. He perks a bit, regarding you again.

“But, if it’s any consolation, Strauss went into town a few hours back. Said he wouldn’t be in camp for a few days on supposed business, so at least you won’t have to see his ugly mug.”

Relief washes over you then, and let out a baited breath. The last thing you really wanted was dealing with that man after all that happened, and you can’t deny the small amount of joy his departure brings to you. It would’ve been terribly awkward, and you figure that if Arthur also weren’t around, the man would take the opportunity to be spiteful.

It’s a riddance that you can’t help but be pleased about.”

“Makes sense that he’d run off. Kinda sent him ‘way like a dog with its tail between its legs, you did.”

Chuckling, Arthur rubs at his neck meekly, “Ain’t so sure ‘bout that, miss... But he had it comin’, no doubt.”

You both quiet then, and you finish up the last bit of your food with a hearty sigh.

For what it’s worth, you do feel better, and if anything, a little bit more human. Your eyes still feel tight after today though, and you can still feel the haze of sleep calling at you from a distance.

As for Arthur, he busies himself with what looks like a cup of coffee you hadn’t seen him bring, and you huff an aborted chuckle as he sips it, looking displeased.

“Bad brew?”

“Gone cold,” he grumbles, “Nothin’ worse in the world than a cold cup of coffee. Should be anythin’ but, ‘specially when ya need it.”

Feeling a culpable at his words, your scowl is as soft as your voice as you whisper, “Oh... Am I keepin’ you from sleepin’?”

The outlaw waves a hand at you, dismissive as he is polite, “Nah, miss. You ain’t keepin’ me from nothin’, I assure you.”

You still stand, awkwardly pushing out the fabric of your dress, “No no, Mr. Morgan,” you shake your head then as you step towards the entrance of Arthur’s tent, the man behind you rising to follow, “I should be goin’ anyways, seein’ as I’ve hogged your cot like a boar thus far.”

You turn a bit, just enough to see Arthur coming to a stop at the entrance of his tent while you remain outside of it. He looks at you, brows furrowed and gaze conflicted then. The only sounds passing between you two are the distant choruses of a few people drunkenly singing, and a few cicadas that sing longingly into the night.

You can tell that there’s something else he wants to say, and you can see where his hand twitches at his side, aborted movements he won’t allow himself to make. You take him in, watching him as he figures what to do.

Eventually, though, Arthur ducks his head and smiles to you, slightly dispirited.

“I suppose you’re right, ‘bout needin’ sleep that is,” he extends an arm behind him, rubbing at his neck as he slants his hips to the side, “It’s been a long day for the both of us...”

Mirroring his expression, you lace your fingers together, dipping your head, “That is has, Mr. Morgan...”

“Call me Arthur,” he tells you, almost as though he blurted it, and he chuckles afterward, looking away as though he internally chastises himself a little, “Just— your lean-to is by the other wagon, a few steps to your left.”

His fumbling makes you hold back a laugh, and you bite at the way your lips threaten to pull further at the corners.

“Well, I thank you for that. You have a good night, _Arthur,_ ” you say around a smile, causing him to look back to you.

“And you too, Ms. Broce.”

And with the slight tip of his hat, he turns, receding back into the inside of his tent.

You take your cue, pivoting and heading to the other side of his wagon to head to your own. Your mind wanders as you do into the dark, the light from the fire not reaching as well over here as with Arthur’s tent. But you’re able to make out a small lantern that burns sluggishly, hanging from one of the supports of the wagon.

There, you make out the canvas of your lean-to, and with the way it flaps gently with the breeze. A bedroll is already laid out for you on the ground, and you can’t stop the small, grateful noise that leaves you upon seeing it.

Your day is still catching up to you— or, if you truly think about it, you’re merely catching up to it. And despite the sleep you’ve gotten thus far, there is a fatigue that seeps down and aches into your bones as you settle down, feeling unconsciousness call to you like a siren once more.

But, in the last moments you have before it truly takes you again, you spend them thinking about a particular outlaw.

And, you don’t miss the way your heart flutters in your chest like the way your eyelids do as they finally fall shut.

**\---**

You wake to a screeching noise, to what source you’re unsure until you manage to blink yourself awake enough to make out what’s in front of you.

There, stands a woman, older and her scowl lines deep. She has her hands on her hips, her eyes dark like the red material of her dress. She looks about as wild as the way her hair has been tousled above her head.

The birds around you quiet, no longer wanting to sing their morning songs at the shrill of her voice crackling through the early blue haze of the air.

“Ms. Broce,” she seethes as you meet her glare, “I do believe it’s time that you finally get up and make yourself useful.”

It takes you a moment to register your situation, and once your poor brain is able to realize what is happening and to gauge the assault upon you, you’re forced into action.

You clear your throat, and nod, pulling at your sluggish muscles to have you sit upward, “Yes, ma’am.”

With that, it does seem to lighten her assault some, and she drags her eyes over you for a split second before speaking, “Well, at least you have manners... But, you’re filthy! Did Mr. Morgan grab you from out of a barn, Ms. Broce?”

You shake your head, trying to hold back the flare of anger that rises from her scathing, “No.”

“Good, then you have no reason to look like it,” her grit is about as hard as the lump in your throat, and she begins to move away, yelling at you over her shoulder, “Get cleaned up! If you don’t have any clothes, ask the girls for some! I’ll be back around to get ya, and you better be lookin’ like a proper woman, and not a degenerate!”

You let out a heavy breath, and you eye after the woman with distaste.

“Told ya, she’s ‘bout like a damn vulture.”

You jump, and you see Arthur smirking at you from where he leans against a nearby tree, a lit and nearly finished cigarette smoldering between the quirk of his lips.

He’s already dressed, this time in a gray union shirt, his black neckerchief resting about his collarbones and the light fabric. He looks clean, in the worn jeans he’s also sporting, and it only makes you feel that much grungier in comparison.

Sputtering, you make it a priority to not look like a pathetic heap upon the ground as Arthur watches you, mirth playing on his eyes and a chuckle about escapes him. You stand then, eyes set into an acrid glower.

“Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?” you snap lightly, looking down to the ruined state of your dress and grimacing.

“Can’t. Not with her goin’ off as she is. Think I’d sleep easier if someone set off dynamite,” he takes one more pull of his cigarette and tosses it before regarding you again, “’Sides, I got chores of my own to take care of. Just made sure she didn’t bite your head off soon as you woke.”

Bitterly, you mutter, “She ‘bout did.”

“Oh, no, she didn’t. Trust me on that,” the outlaw hooks his fingers on his holster, and flicks the edge of his hat as he steps forward, heading towards where the entrance of the camp lies a few feet from your lean-to, “I gotta head out, otherwise I’d try and spare you the lecture I’m sure she’s gonna give.”

You expect him to just walk past you to continue with his day, but he stops, glancing to you from the corner of his eye. It makes the fire in you dim a bit, and you lose some of your tension as he gives an encouraging smile.

“You should do just fine here, Ms. Broce. I have no doubts.”

You blink, and you avert your gaze afterward, your hand balling into a fist at your side.

“See you ‘round.”

Arthur leaves then, and you’re left by yourself to stew. But, as you hear Ms. Grimshaw railing into someone else from across camp, you shove it aside, and spur yourself into action.

It takes a few minutes and wandering the camp to find them, but you come across three girls who are talking to one another as they work. You are sheepish as you approach, feeling like an outsider as they stop to eye you, their conversation dying with your arrival.

“I—” you swallow nervously, but you try and push past it, knowing what needs to be done, “Ms. Grimshaw told me to find you... I need to borrow a dress. ‘Fraid mine ain’t worth wearin’.”

The girls remain silent, still watching you.

For a second, you think that you’re in for it. That is, until one of them, fair-faced and with her blonde hair in fine curls upon her shoulders, comes forward to you with a smile.

“I think you’re about my size,” her voice is as timid as it is nice, “If not, then you can try Karen’s. We’ll find somethin’ to fit either way.”

And, despite your inital nerves, you smile back at her, feeling some of your anxiety fall away.

“Thank you...”

“It’s no problem at all!” she chirps, and she wraps her arm into yours, pulling at the elbow with excitement as she begins to lead you to the other side of the wagon, “Now, I think you’d look amazing in green! And I have the perfect dress in mind!”

A startled laugh escapes you, and as the other girls stop their chores to join in dressing you up, you feel that, maybe, just maybe, Arthur was right about you doing just fine.

**\---**

The next few days pass without much occurrence.

Arthur thankfully has given you some space, occasionally coming in to check on you.

He’s been busy though, working on various things and being sent out of the camp a lot on errands from various people. One moment he’s there, eating quickly or finishing up with whoever needed him, and he’s gone the next, already set out on something else as quickly as he’d come.

It’s obvious, from what little time you’ve been here, that Arthur is a crucial backbone to the gang, which only adds onto your guilt for keeping him as you did when you first arrived.

And you’ve tried to make up for it by helping out.

Shortly after you woke on your first day, you were taken under Ms. Grimshaw’s wing like the other girls, and put to work. Her brashness and grit weren’t too surprising now that you knew of it, her face soured as though she drank vinegar in her coffee. You could tell she was always in a mood, and that it meant she looked over the girls and you with a fist made of freshly cast iron.

But, if it did manage one thing other than to drive you near to fits, it meant that you were able to bond with the girls quicker than anything.

They were all nice— Karen, Mary-Beth, and Tilly.

You found that Mary-Beth was the sweetest, a kind and genuine soul. It was a little surprising to find that she was in a gang such as this, and that she had her own ways of partaking in their shenanigans. The face you made when she showed you a pocket watch she snatched off of a drunk man while they were passing through Hennigan’s Stead had her laughing up a storm. After all, the fact that no one expected her to have sneaky fingers is what made her so successful in the first place. She’s a siren, that you are sure of.

As for Tilly, she is probably the most rounded out of the trio. Rational, level-headed. You can tell she dreams big, but knows better at the same time. She has a realism about her that keeps her from getting in over her head, which is something you appreciate. She’s kind too, which also helps, but you can tell that Tilly knows which route is best to take before she goes down it. And if she doesn’t, she’s going to mull it over till she finds out. You figure if there’s anyone to go to for advice, it’s going to be her without a doubt.

Karen, however, well, she’s about as predictable and wild as fire itself. She burns bright with excitement and passion, and you can tell that she loves the life she leads and wants no different. Unlike Mary-Beth and Tilly, she’s ready for fights, even tells you that she takes up watches for the camp sometimes. She learned how to shoot a gun from Sean, using his feelings for her to manage milking a few lessons out of him before she grew tired of his advances. And while she’s no perfect shot, you can tell the head she’s got on her shoulders is a cunning one at its worst. The chaos she can create is one of legend when it comes to what she can get into, so, you know if you want a fun time and maybe a bit of a bounty to boot, Karen’s your gal.

But, as for all of them, they all take quite an interest in you.

You figure it’s because there’s very few girls in camp to start with, and even fewer that they can and want to talk to.

There’s Molly, but she is always in Dutch’s tent, apparently— stowed away like a doll. From the way Karen speaks of her, you know that they don’t get along in the slightest, and there’s history there, you figure a jealousy of some kind be either one or both of them. Mary-Beth and Tilly are mostly indifferent towards her, but you can tell that Molly keeps her distance from them all for good reason.

As for Abigail, she’s busy being a mom to her son, Jack. You remember Arthur mentioning her when you first arrived, shooting off to that Marston fellow who made that odd comment to you. Right now, she’s apparently out with the boy’s father, John, as little Jack had fallen sickly with a decent cold.

But all three girls like her, and tell you that she can be fun when she wants to be. Before her son was born, she was as wild and careless as the rest of them. But now, Jack keeps her grounded and a bit paranoid, and the girls miss the way she used to be. Though, they admit they would swap her or Jack for the world.

There’s also Jenny, of course, but she’s often running around with Lenny and having fun in town. You have yet to really talk or meet her, but you’ve seen her a few times for only a few moments. She’s stumbled into camp drunk with Lenny, laughing and smiling brightly, but she was gone again by the time you woke or happened to remember her. She rarely ever stays long, and Lenny is quick to follow.

“Not that we judge or anythin’,” Karen made a point to say to you as you talked, “She’s just a young woman who is in love. Figures she’d focus on the butterflies more than the flowers she’s supposed to tend to.”

But as for you, you’re something new— something different.

When Karen learns of your experience with hunting and gunmanship, she begs you to teach her more, especially with the repeater she uses for whenever she takes up patrol. It gets a laugh out of you, and you have to explain that it’s been a while since you’ve had to fire anything off, especially of that size. A pout is what you receive, but you can tell that Karen will more than likely get her way, some day.

Mary-Beth, however, is more imaginative, asking you about the world you’ve seen, the animals you’ve come across. She’s curious, eyes wide with a wonder that you’d see in an innocent child rather than a grown woman running with a gang. You find out that she tries her hand out with writing, but can never create something she’s satisfied with. So, she looks for that spark, and definitely finds reference among your tales. It’s something you’ve quickly grown fond of, and you are always ready to tell Mary-Beth stories as you both work on washing linens.

As for Tilly, she wonders about how you managed surviving, had it only been you and your father for your whole life up until this point. She’s respectful about her prodding, which is something you appreciate, and so you’re willing to tell her about the hardships and benefits about supporting oneself. Her ambition is as clear as ever as she tells you her picturesque world in which she has more money than she’ll ever need. She definitely takes inspiration when you offer her moments in which you made the impossible happen, time and time again. It makes washing dishes less mundane.

Mostly, though, one thing they all share is a curiosity of how you came to be in the gang. They know a little, having somewhat seen the debacle that was your meeting with Strauss. But they’re interested, and they’ve admitted to gossiping as to how you ended up here.

“Arthur usually doesn’t do somethin’ like that,” Mary-Beth told you as you folded the clean laundry you’d done earlier that day, “Most of the time, he just goes and does what Strauss tells him. He rarely goes against him like that. Or anyone, for that matter He’s ‘bout as loyal as they come.”

You had stayed silent, uncertain of what to say.

“What you’d do that made him fight for you like that?” Karen had asked, “A girl just wants to know.”

You huffed, amused but unsure, “I didn’t do a thing, really... Just— I wasn’t in a good place when Arthur came across me... Guess he took pity on a poor girl when she needed it most.”

Tilly had smiled fondly, nodding, “He’s kind like that. A good man that won’t admit it.”

“Pretty sure we all doted on him at one point or another, the way he is. Such a shame,” Karen had sighed.

“What do you mean?”

The girls had looked at you then, and they shared a somber glance among themselves before Mary-Beth spoke.

“Arthur, he’s— he doesn’t get sweet with anyone. Not in some time. He’s a gentleman, and he tries to do good by everyone, but he’s never been with anyone or even paid for ‘em the entire time I’ve been here.”

“Me either,” Karen murmured, and Tilly hummed knowingly.

That made you press your lips together, and you had tilted your head, “That’s— . . .” you trailed off.

“Surprising, yeah. You’d think he’d get with anyone, and he could if he wanted,” Karen sighed longingly, “But he won’t. Stubborn as he is... Just—don’t get your hopes up, even with the way he’s been with you. It’s easy to fall in love with him, trust me, but it won’t do you nothin’ more than a good heartache.”

The other girls nodded, murmuring their agreement.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you said awkwardly, and you went back to folding laundry, trying to forget their words.

But they didn’t leave you, not quite.

Not when Arthur came back for the first time since he left earlier that morning, and they returned to you with a vengeance.

He’s a bit scuffed up, his tan shirt sporting patches of ground dirt and dust, and his knees are a rusty brown, despite the black coloring of the denim he wears. You can tell it’s been a hard day, as his broad shoulders are sunk and heavy, and he goes straight to his tent to collapse onto his cot without so much as a word to anyone.

You think about their words then, about Arthur’s choice to be alone. It makes your chest ache, not out of loss, but out of sympathy.

Because, with the way Arthur puts his face into his hands, his fingers dragging harshly over his skin, you can tell that, more than anything, being alone is the last thing he needs.

And so, brashly, you make a decision.

You get two bowls from Pearson’s wagon, earning an odd eye from the portly man. You only offer a sheepish smile, but you make quick work of filling both before scurrying off.

Most of the gang has already gathered around the fire, singing and laughing loudly into the oncoming night as they drink and eat. But, like you expected, Arthur is nowhere to be seen.

You know where to find him, as you walk towards your tents, the bowls held tightly in your hands.

And you are not surprised to find him scrawling in a journal as you come upon him.

He doesn’t notice you, not at first. He’s deeply enraptured with his writing, his sweaty and dust-caked brow creased in concentration as his pencil works away. It reminds you of that day in Blackwater, when you happened to see him by the bank. It makes an odd feeling flutter against your ribs, but you ignore it, and pointedly clear your throat.

At the noise, Arthur’s head snaps up, his green eyes immediately locking onto you. His face is slack for a second, the lines in his skin and the bags under his eyes showing just how fatigued and worn he is from his day before. But he is quick to shove on a smile for you as though it had never happened.

“Ah, Ms. Broce,” he places his pencil in the spine of his journal before setting it aside, and he regards you again, “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

“Dinner,” you state, and you hold out a bowl of stew to the outlaw, “Figured you’d be hungry, and it was about gone when I got some for myself.”

A tired chuckle leaves him, and he grins at you under the brim of his hat as he takes the bowl from you, “Well, I appreciate your consideration of me. I probably would’ve gone without tonight, otherwise.”

You snort softly, but hesitate. You stand there, awkwardly eyeing the ground as you consider your next move.

Arthur faintly glowers, and he notices your conundrum, “Somethin’ wrong?”

“Is it— is it okay if we eat together?” you ask, words meek as you barely meet his eyes, “I just— I don’t know everyone too well yet, and I’d hate for you to eat by yourself—”

“Sure.”

Your eyes widen a bit at his lack of protest, and he moves further to the side on his cot, “Ain’t much room, but I figure it’s better than sitting on a rickety box that might give any second.”

Your palms sweat against the metal of the bowl your carry, but you force yourself to step forward, and to sit down beside him. After all, you asked to share dinner with him, and the last thing you need to do is chicken out just because you’re sitting next to one another.

But being this close, you can feel heat radiating off him, and it’s staggering as you meagerly eat the stew before you. Arthur has no problems, digging in and working through the meal as though he hadn’t eaten all day— which, you figure to be the case. He doesn’t seem to mind at all, uncaring for the way you watch him out of the corner of your eye as he knocks about half the bowl back in a few minutes.

But, he does have the decency to take a pause, and he sets the bowl in his lap, wiping his lips with his arm and looking to you after he swallows.

“I haven’t really gotten the chance to talk to you much,” he says then, meeting your eyes, “How’s the first few days of bein’ here goin’ for ya? No one’s given you trouble, have they?”

“No,” you almost stutter, and you look away, focusing on the vegetables in the stew instead, “I’ve gotten along just fine... Well, Ms. Grimshaw is as cranky as I’ll get out, but I figure that’s the usual for her.”

Arthur snorts, “Yeah. Kind is a rare way of her, but the camp wouldn’t be the same without the buzzard.”

You hum, not knowing enough to agree with such a statement.

“What about you and the girls? You get along just fine?”

At the mention of them, you smile, nodding, “Yeah, I enjoy ‘em just fine. They’re ‘bout the only thing that makes chores bearable.”

Arthur beams then, “Good! I figured they’d take to you. You seemed right up their alley.”

At that, you tilt your head at him, your smirk still stretching you lips, “And what’s that supposed to mean, Mr. Morgan? Are you implyin’ somethin’ about me?”

“Well, dare I say, you seem to have a strong head on your shoulders, and you know your way around a gun. Right there will get you in with Tilly and Karen. As for Mary-Beth, she loves hearing about the world she’s never gotten to really experience. And as a hunter’s daughter, I’m sure you’ve given her quite the fill in, ‘specially for her stories... But, I’d also say it’s just nice to have another woman around they can gossip with.”

Your mouth parts, and you try to speak around the smile that you have, but you can’t find your voice. Arthur mirrors it back at you, bringing up a spoonful and eating it smugly in light of your loss for words.

“Well,” you start, and you look away, blinking and almost laughing, “Never thought I’d be watered down to that, but, guess it could be worse.”

“Don’t mean anythin’ mean by it,” humor leeches into his voice, “You’re just new and interestin’. I’m sure they’ve had they’re fun learning about you and askin’ you things.”

You snort, shaking your head as you fix up a spoonful of stew, “That they have... Karen’s already asked for shootin’ lessons.”

“No doubt. She stopped with Sean once he started tryin’ to teach her about more than just a revolver.”

You nearly choke on your mouthful, but you manage to catch yourself and not spit it out. Still, your cheeks burn, especially as Arthur laughs beside you.

“The key is to not swallow, Ms. Broce.”

You hit Arthur on the leg, falsely aghast as scandalized as you force your mouthful of stew down, “Mr. Morgan! How crude!”

His cackle is lively, and he shakes his head, “I’m only playin’ wit ya,” he lets it die down in his chest before asking, “He hasn’t bothered you yet though, has he?”

“No. I haven’t really met anyone aside from the girls in camp. They’re all busy, from what I can tell. There’s apparently a lot going on. Think Karen mentioned somethin’ big is happenin’ in about a week or two.”

“That there is... But just pray Sean stays away from you as long as possible. That boy sees a woman and all he is capable of is makin’ a damn fool of himself,” Arthur sneers heatedly, “Him and Micah, they’re the worst...”

“Micah?”

Arthur visibly tenses at the name, and his gaze grows dark in a way you haven’t seen since the day you met him, “Yeah... Micah. He’s newer. Picked him up back in the Grizzlies a few months back. Wish we didn’t, but, Dutch was taken with him after meetin’ him in a saloon for some damn reason...” Arthur grows deathly quiet then, his face stern and pinched.

You eye him, and you’re about to speak when Arthur beats you to it.

“Ms. Broce,” it is the most serious he’s been in a while with you, and you straighten up as he glares out into the grass before him, “If there is one person you need to stear clear of, it’s Micah Bell. He’s... He’s nothin’ good. Especially for you... So just—” he turns to you, eyes unwavering, “Promise me you’ll stay away from him as best you can.”

Your lips part gingerly, and you consider Arthur’s words. His expression is clouded, his lips pressed into a fine scowl. It makes your heart stutter somewhat, and your mouth goes dry before you speak.

“I-I’ll try.”

“Good,” Arthur breaks off then, but he doesn’t relax, even as he goes back to spooning his food, “If he ever gives you any grief, you let me know immediately. I’ll deal with him. Always.”

The subtle growl to his voice makes a shiver dance up your spine, and you nod. You look back to your own bowl, the food no longer steaming, and you mull over his words.

Silence passes between you both then, and it’s tense. Arthur is obviously worked up, and it’s left you uneasy. He’s almost as bad as he was when he first walked into camp, and for that, you feel worse than before. Because beside you, he eats angrily, just the thought of Micah alone enough to sour his mood completely.

And after a few sad bites of stew, you can’t bear it any further, and so you try to lighten the mood like you intended in the first place.

“So...” you begin, tone mellow, catching Arthur off guard, “What’s that book I always see you workin’ in?”

The question is obviously one that Arthur wasn’t expecting as he blinks at you. It takes a second for him to process your question before he swallows, setting his near-empty dish down to pick up the leather-bound journal beside him.

“Aw, this?” he says, already lighter than he had been moments ago as he gives you a meager smile, “It’s nothin’.”

“It’s gotta be somethin’ with the way your face is buried in it all the time,” you let your eyes drop down to it.

That gets a chortle out of him, and he opens it to where his pencil resides in the middle of the spine, revealing two almost-blank pages. There’s a start to a rough sketch on one, and there’s a fine scrawl on the other. At the sight of it, you instantly start leaning in, your curiosity getting the better of you.

“Nosy much?” Arthur teases.

You reel back, cheeks red and hot as he smirks at you, “Oh! I’m— sorry, Arthur, I didn’t mean—”

“No harm done,” he holds up a hand, and he takes the pencil out, pausing, “But I promise, it’s probably going to be the most borin’ thing you’ll ever see.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that.”

Almost reluctantly, he holds out his journal to you, and you take it cautiously, giving him more than enough chance to take it back if he decides. But he leaves it there, steady in his hand for you to take, and you offer him a small smile in thanks once it’s passed onto you.

He shifts some at your side, his foot twitching in a nervous rhythm as you begin to read what he had been working on when you came upon him.

It’s a sketch of crane, and a fine one at that. It’s standing among the reeds of the bank, set somewhere in the nearby swamp. You can tell that it was only seconds from flight, and how Arthur was able to capture such a short moment in such fine detail mesmerizes you as you take in the dark, harsh lines of graphite.

“Arthur, this is—” you flip the page, seeing yet another drawing— this time of a section of the swamp where the trees overhang and lilies blossom in bunches along the surface of the water.

Words leave you, and you begin flipping page after page, taking in each sketch and seeing such fine penmanship littered throughout the pages. It is beautiful, his work and his writing, and it is something you didn’t expect whatsoever from an outlaw such as himself. Especially when he writes of his experiences— of things he’s done, of what he’s come across. It’s so... unexpected.

“There’s really not much else worth lookin’ at,” he suddenly speaks for the first time since he handed you his journal, his voice nearly making you jump, “Promise the rest is just things I should rip out, they’re so bad.”

His words didn’t quite register in time with you, though, as you habitually flip over one more page right as Arthur’s hand shoots up out of nowhere.

But it’s too late.

There on the page is a drawing, and one that has you blinking with your eyes wide and your heart racing. Arthur curses hotly under his breath, and he snatches the journal away before you can stare at it any longer, or read the text accompanying it.

But, what’s done is done. You’ve seen it either way.

“I— I promise I don’t mean anythin’ weird by it,” Arthur rushes then, and his hands are a blur as he closes his journal and fixes it shut, “I just— I write and draw about things I see and with things that happen—”

“Arthur,” he stops then, cold in his tracks.

You can tell he’s worried about your reaction, of what you’d think of him considering. It almost makes you laugh, his misplaced concern. But you offer him a warm smile instead, and his brows furrow at its appearance.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell him honestly, and he looks away.

“I— . . .” he trails off, rubbing at his nape and forming a sour frown before sheepishly muttering, “I’m glad you think so...”

You look away, feeling that awkwardness return, but it clouds around Arthur like an aura. It’s obvious that he is embarrassed, and he doesn’t look at you as you go to stand.

“Thank you for sharing that with me, Arthur. And for letting me have dinner with you,” you tell him, and it’s then that his eyes barely meet yours from under the brim of his hat, “Hopefully we can do this again soon.”

Arthur opens his mouth, but he lets the words die on his tongue. He then presses his lips together, nodding.

You grab your empty bowl, turning to leave. But before you go, you look over your shoulder, and offer a wish of goodnight.

Arthur manages a quiet one back, but he doesn’t look your way. You don’t take it personally though, knowing he just felt embarrassed like any other human being would in that moment.

As you head back to put your dirty bowl with the others, your mind lingers, picturing the drawing in your head as though it were still laid out in front of you. It was gorgeous, and a part of you doesn’t know what to make of it.

Because it was a drawing of you, one done in such great skill and detail.

You’re not sure what to feel at that. That Arthur had taken the time to draw you about damn near perfect in his journal. That he wrote about you, as well.

It makes you wonder, what he had to say, what he did say, and a small part of you wishes you had gotten enough time to read what framed your sketch in his journal.

But, you know better.

You should know better. Especially with the piece of advice Karen had given you.

But, then again, you should’ve known better for a lot of things at this point. And if anything, you’ve only proven to be an ignorant fool who never did what they should’ve.

And, somehow, when it comes to Arthur Morgan, you feel like you will be the biggest fool yet.

**\---**

The next morning, by the time you wake, Arthur is already gone.

You wanted to try and see how he was, and to try and see if you could make up for the night before. But as you came upon his tent, it being empty as it was quiet, you frowned, and knew it would more than likely be sometime yet before you could see the man again. You only wanted to let him know that it was okay, and that you didn’t mind, having seen how mortified he seemed to be upon your discovery of your portrait. But, it would have to wait.

It’s a bit of a shame, but you picked yourself up, and head over to the girls’ wagon to start on your chores for the day.

Tilly is already wide awake, having always been an early riser. Beside her, Mary-Beth is fixing her hair in the mirror from where sleep had undone it, while Karen seemed to be trying to get just a few more moments in before Grimshaw came screeching.

“Hey Tilly, Mary-Beth,” you greet, and they smile to you.

“Mornin’!”

You settle yourself down beside them, already grabbing one of the washing boards and metal basins from the side of the wagon, “Grimshaw awake yet?”

“Unfortunately, but she has yet to come over to us,” Tilly frowns around the lip of her coffee mug, “Frankly I hope she never does.”

You laugh, already filling the basin with water from the bucket left for you, “I can understand that.”

As you make a move for the lye, Mary-Beth pauses her braiding enough to regard you.

“Hey, last night— I meant to ask but, we saw you grab another bowl and leave without sittin’ with any of us. Where’d you run off to?”

The smile you had dies a bit on your lips, and you pause some before continuing your chore.

Your mind falls back onto Arthur, and the way he had shut down after you’d seen his drawing of you in his journal. But you attempt to reign the reminder in, trying not to let on as the girls observe you closely.

“I just grabbed dinner for Arthur... Seemed like he had a rough day of it yesterday.”

Adding onto your plight, Karen sits up, rubbing at one eye while looking at you with the other almost squinted shut. You pointedly looked away, and added lye to the basin as you realize she’d been listening in.

“You didn’t come back. Guessin’ you stayed to talk?” Mary-Beth chances, a bit of a curious edge to her voice.

“We talked, yeah. But nothin’ else,” you say, somewhat defensive, “Why, what’s it matter?”

“Ah, nothin’ at all really, just... You’re not sweet on him already, are you?”

You blank, your mouth falling open at Mary-Beth's prodding. Beside her, Tilly looks at you expectantly as she listens, sipping on her coffee. Even Karen seems to have woken up enough to completely grasp the conversation, and she gets a teasing look about her as she gauges your reaction.

“N-No!” you sputter, shaking your head as you grab a shirt from the pile that needed washing, using more force than necessary to get ahold of it, “Listen, I ain’t forgettin’ what you said. I know how he is. And even then, I’ve only known him a few days. We’ve barely spoken, really. I just— I feel bad for him, and like I’ve been takin’ advantage. He’s been nothin’ but kind, and here I am, offerin’ nothin’ back for it. Least I could do was make sure he got somethin’ to eat and had company when he wouldn’t have had either otherwise.”

“We’re not judgin’ you,” Karen explains, voice level, not hiding any subtle amounts of teasing or mocking at that moment— she’s being genuine and serious with you, a rare thing you’ve come to realize, “We never have.”

Your frown is deep and sour, and you hold the shirt before the basin, unsure, “I just feel like there’s not a true way I can pay him back. I mean, my loan with Strauss, I owe him fifty dollars,” Karen whistles, and both Mary-Beth and Tilly wince in sympathy, “Arthur, he’s just been so kind to me. The only reason I’m gettin’ this chance is because of him. Otherwise, I’m sure Strauss would’ve had me beaten or killed... Pretty sure that’s what he sent Arthur to do, anyway...”

“I’ll admit, the debt thing is a nasty business. Kinda wish Strauss would stop with it, but it’s the only time he feels like he’s a macho man with somethin’ to be proud of,” Tilly clicks her tongue, “But you owe fifty dollars? What on earth did you need it for?”

You don’t meet their eyes, your voice numb and quiet, “My father... He was sick. Pneumonia... I just finished burying him when Arthur found me.”

Karen curses, and Mary-Beth leans over, placing a hand on yours.

“I tried to buy medicine, made no difference... Spent it all on a crook of a doctor in Blackwater. That loan was the last bit of money I had, and it weren’t even mine...” you inhale sharply, “I had nothin’— nothin’ Arthur could take, nothin’ I could give. So he brought me here to try and work somethin’ out with Strauss. It’s a kindness he didn’t have to give, but did. He’s the only reason I ain’t attractin’ buzzards right now, I’m sure... I’m just— I don’t know how to make it up to him. Especially when I’m already doing so much to make little to no progress on my debt.”

“Well, a bowl of stew and good company is a step in the right direction,” Mary-Beth offers, her words kindred and supportive, “I’m not entirely sure how you want to go about it, but the girls and I, we can help you in any way we can.”

“Yeah!” Karen smiles wide, and with the twinkle in her eyes, you know she’s already got a few ideas for you, “We can point you in the right direction!”

“And you can start washin’ those clothes, too!”

You all jump and face the harsh chiding that comes from beside you, and you grimace as Ms. Grimshaw glares at you lot, her hands on her hips. Karen immediately withers, like a poor flower having been crushed, and Mary-Beth shies away while Tilly hides her cup of coffee.

“Figures you lot would be yappin’ instead of workin’! I can’t have Jenny or Molly be any help while they’re trollopin’ around, but I by god will have you put in some work! At least Ms. Broce has the right idea!” she gestures to you with her hand, her rage mostly focused on Karen as she looks to her, “Now get to it, before I get ya myself!”

Ms. Grimshaw storms off, and you let out a deep breath as Karen mutters a curse at her departure.

“We can talk more about it later,” Tilly promises with a light smile.

You nod, dunking the shirt into the batch of water and lye you’ve made, and you quickly get to work.

You spend the day working on clothes, while your mind works on the problem at hand. The girls do make a bit of small talk, asking you some questions, or just in general telling you things that they’ve found out or found funny, but it still lingers.

The girls can tell your mind is elsewhere, and they try to help some. Especially when Ms. Grimshaw comes around for a third time, focusing her anger on you for a shirt you supposedly didn’t wash well enough. You take the abuse, staying silent as she rails about how you and the girls were practically good for nothing before she throws the shirt at your face. You had caught it, just barely, and you only wait to glare until her back is facing you.

“How do you all put up with her?” you seethe, nearly seeing red.

“We try not to, if we can,” Karen grouches, and she huffs, “She’s particularly shitty today. Wonder what has her in a tizzy.”

“Probably Dutch,” Tilly remarks as she wrings out the leg of some jeans she’s working on, “He’s apparently pushin’ her more now that the robbery is comin’ up.”

At that, you still, your eyes narrowing. The word has your gut roil on itself, and it feels heavy as you say it.

“Robbery?”

Tilly parts her lips, pausing. Karen and Mary-Beth share a look, unsure.

It’s Karen that breaks the silence.

“Well, uh, you run with us now, so I guess it ain’t wrong to tell you, but... There’s somethin’ that Dutch and some others are runnin’. A boat, or somethin’. I don’t know too much. But it’s why we’ve camped here, because it’s in Blackwater from what they’ve said... ‘Fraid I don’t know too much because we’re just the laundry girls of the troop, but I know bits and pieces from what I’ve overheard.”

“It’s the ferry,” you say then knowingly, and the girls turn their attention to you, “It’s been talk of the town for a minute... The bank decided to use it instead of stagecoaches. They’ve been robbed more often than not... That’s what y’all plan on goin’ after?”

Karen looks like she’s about to say something else, but she’s cut off as her eyes widen. She goes still, and the other girls turn as pale as the sheets that are drying on the ropes behind them. They’re all looking somewhere over your shoulder, and you swallow thickly, feeling eyes and a presence upon you.

Slowly, you turn, and you come face to face with none other than Dutch Van Der Linde himself.

“I—” your voice dies off into silence as the man eyes you, his gaze impassive as it is cold as he studies you.

He takes a step forward, dropping the partial cigar he’d been about halfway through before coming close, kneeling down until he’s almost eye level with you. Against your ribs, your heart races, and your fingers sink down into the cloth you were washing to the point where you’re sure they’re ripping through.

The air is tense and heavy, and you can hear the girls holding their breath from behind you as Dutch stares. It’s about suffocating, the way he still manages to tower over you and make you feel small, and his lips tick upward after a few moments.

“I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure of truly meeting one another until now,” he says, voice lower and deeper than you expected, “Are you the infamous Ms. Broce I’ve heard so much about?”

You swallow, your saliva feeling like lead as you nod, unable to find your tongue.

Dutch smiles, and you feel unease wrap itself and tighten around your stomach. He looks towards the other girls, and dips his head in acknowledgement to them.

“Afraid I will need to be borrowin’ her for a moment, ladies,” he chuckles, the sound anything but cheerful to you, “Ms. Broce, care to follow me?”

Despite it being offered as a question, you know that you have no choice. It is an order of you, and refusing is no option with the way that Dutch’s interested gaze evaluates you as you stand. The girls are deathly silent, and you happen to look over to see the few souls who are still in the camp watching on. It’s almost as if the world had stopped spinning, and you shakily approach.

Dutch sends you a small smile, but it brings no comfort. Especially as he lifts his arm, bending it at the elbow and offering it for you to take. Again, you know that there is no room for argument, or refusal.

Your skin must feel like ice as you loop your arm with his, because his burns in a way that makes you want to break your contact as quickly as possible. He’s like touching flame, and you know he’s just as dangerous as he begins to lead you away from the girls, his eyes watching you from their corners.

“Ms. Broce,” he starts, his deep voice only loud enough for you to hear, “I must say, words do not do you justice.”

You pointedly look before you, and you force your legs to move in pace with the man to avoid stumbling, “T-Thank you...”

He says nothing more then, but he leads you to the massive tent you’d seen him in when Arthur first brought you here. The phonograph you’d taken notice of when you arrived is also playing, and it feels like the orchestra is sounding off to your demise.

As you come upon the tent, there is a sole woman inside. She is smiling at first, chipper and pleased as she rests on the plush chair in the corner. But when her eyes find yours, they turn about as fiery as her hair, and there is a spark of pure jealousy that rages within her at your arrival, arm in arm with Dutch.

She stands abruptly from where she had been sitting next to a fine cot, her hands white knuckling the dark green fabric of her dress.

“Dutch—”

“Not now, Molly,” Dutch’s voice is like steel, unwavering and infallible, “Please, I need to speak with our newest guest, and I’d appreciate if you gave us the room.”

Her face crumples some, and she looks like she wants to argue. But Dutch levels her with a stern glare as he motions you to his cot, and she ends up making a noise of frustration.

“Fine,” she says, her accented voice dripping with irritation, “But don’t you dare think we’re not talkin’ when I get back.”

She doesn’t see it, but Dutch rolls his eyes at her as she leaves, whipping the flaps of his tent wildly in her anger. You remain on the cot awkwardly, and you fidget with your hands in your lap while Dutch shakes his head.

“Some women,” Dutch remarks, sighing, and he goes over to the phonograph, “But, I’ve been told you’re one of the few worthy of having as company.”

He turns the phonograph off, leaving a weighted silence to envelope in the tent.

“Thank you, I suppose...”

Pivoting towards you, his eyes narrow from what you’re sure is his intent to study you. You try not to squirm under his attention, and your palms sweat against one another.

“So. You’re the debtor turned member,” he says frankly, and he pulls a fresh cigar from his side table, “Arthur’s told me a bit about you.”

At that, you freeze, “Has he?”

“Nothin’ bad, I assure you,” Dutch smirks, his canines about as sharp as the glint in his eyes— he holds the unlit cigar between his fingers out of habit, “Said you were local. From Blackwater.”

“Somewhat... I lived up near Tall Trees, in my father’s cabin before he passed and I came here,” you grow quiet for a moment, and as you notice the way Dutch’s expression darkens, you nearly choke before adding, “But the business of Blackwater might as well be my own.”

At that, a twinkle reappears in his eye, and he holds a match between his fingertips like cat who finally got the canary in its cage.

It doesn’t bode well, but you know that you will only be met with something worse if you don’t tell him what he wants to know.

And for that, you try to strengthen your resolve as he opens the drawer of the nightstand.

“I overheard what you were sayin’, ‘bout the ferry,” you nearly flinch as his hand reemerges, but only a match rests between his fingertips.

With relief, your let out a breath as quietly as you can, not averting your attention from Dutch as he shuts it.

He takes match then and drags it quick against the edge of the table, and it lights immediately with a flash and puff of smoke. With no rush, he brings it to where it’s upright, and he allows the flames to start consuming its length, leveling you with his stare.

“How much do you know about it?”

Straight to the point, then.

A part of you is grateful that he didn’t dance around it.

After all, the last thing you want is a man like Dutch playing the strings he pulls. But that doesn’t change the interest he has taken with you, and you know enough without being told as such that it will not mean good for you in the future.

“It’s comin’ soon, from what I heard. In about a week or two now if memory serves right.”

He hums, pressing further, “You happen to know what’s on it?”

The man’s eyes are almost black as they rest upon you, dark and icy. The flame has burned its way through half of the match now, and you fidget on the cot before him as you see it steadily near his fingers.

“The bank’s stipend, I’m sure... But I heard that they’ve got other things, for the city hall they’re building. Materials, various valuables,” you quiet at the way Dutch’s eyes light up at that, “But it’s rumor. That don’t always mean truth.”

The match is almost gone, the flame about to singe his skin. You stiffen, tense with the expectation of it burning the hell out of him.

But right before it can singe his flesh, Dutch finally brings the rest of the match up to the end of his cigar, turning it red hot before testing to see if it smokes.

Once it’s simmering as he likes, the man flicks the charred scrap of wood to the side and takes a pull from the cigar, eyes not leaving you until he exhales a hot, clouded breath.

“Know anythin’ but rumor?”

It’s a bit of a warning, and you press your lips together before you talk again.

“It’s going to be guarded. By what, I’m not sure. Maybe some government folks,” you tell him honestly, “Figures, with the cargo it has... Do... You...” Dutch raises a brow at you, and you can’t help the words that sneak past your lips, “They told me you planned on robbin’ it... Is that true?”

Something sinister flashes across his face, and you immediately regret your bluntness. He takes a step forward, puffing his chest some and rolling his shoulders back in a way that makes him seem like a giant in your wake.

“And what if I am?” he growls.

You can tell he’s testing the waters, gauging you. You’re new— a stranger. You could easily throw his entire plan out of the window if you ran into town to run your mouth.

And, going by the way his hand rests on the ivory handle of his revolver, a threat needing no words, you know that he intends for that to never happen.

You swallow thickly, raising your chin as you eye his hand on his gun, forcing yourself to speak evenly, “Then it’s none of my business.”

A moment passes, his eyes still hard on you. He takes another drag from his cigar, only relaxing some once he lets out yet another cloud of smoke. You refuse to tremble or have your resolve crumble before him, but your blank expression falls away to one of confusion as Dutch begins to chuckle.

And as it grows into a loud, booming laugh, you’re sure that you must look manic.

His hand leaves his revolver, his eyes crinkling around the edges as he sheds his guise as quickly as he’d put it on.

“I must say, Ms. Broce, you are _quite_ the treat indeed.”

You say nothing.

Dutch sighs happily, and he puts the needle of the phonograph back onto its record, the deep sound of the drums almost mirroring the thrumming of your heart.

“We’ll talk again soon,” he tells you, already turning and grabbing a book from where it laid on a box beside the cot, “Until then, I hope life finds you well, Ms. Broce.”

You stand, trying to make sure you do not let your nerves get the best of you than what they already have. You bid him goodbye, to which he waves you off without much care.

You make it past the entrance of his tent, earning you the curious eyes of the few men that have meandered back into camp, but you rush past, only to crumple once you near your tent. Your breaths are rapid and sharp, and your lungs feel as though they were collapsing on themselves.

Because you know. You know that this is only beginning— that Dutch has more in store for you.

It is a sickening reality, and it’s one you do not fancy. But, like much else, you have little choice other than to bear whatever is to happen.

The only thing you can do is to hope that, by some miracle, it works out for the better.

**\---**

In the following days, it is obvious that Dutch is keeping an eye on you.

Despite you trying to keep your distance, you always manage to feel his eyes upon you before you find him, lingering somewhere in the camp. It’s gotten to the point where, any time you smell smoke near the girls’ wagon as you work, you know he is nearby, watching you.

It makes you highly unsettled, and the girls can tell. They try to offer support as best they can, but there is not much they can do. It’s a storm you’ll have to weather through until it passes, either by Dutch getting what he wants, or losing whatever interest he seems to have found in you.

To some degree of luck, Ms. Grimshaw hasn’t been as bad as she was, but it’s not for saying much. It is obvious that she too knows about your current predicament, and she doesn’t zone in on you as she had, seeming almost hesitant at times to truly snap your way. She still gives you and the girls grief, however, but you’d rather deal with her ire than Dutch’s any day.

As for Arthur, he’s been gone still, not having come back for some days.

You don’t realize it, not until Mary-Beth makes a comment as you all washed up after Pearson’s cooking, and you haven’t shaken it since.

You wonder what he’s doing— what he’s up to. You figure, like the rest of the camp, he’s readying for the upcoming ferry robbery, and you can’t do much but wait for him to return as you busy yourself.

And there’s much to do, with the way Ms. Grimshaw runs around, barking orders for this and that to be done. Her reigns have gone tighter, and she passes through the camp like hornets who’d nest had been kicked.

It leaves you and the girls tired and praying for a break, but there’s not much to be found. For anyone, even.

Much like Arthur, the other men are barely in camp, if at all. They pass through like vagrants, sometimes only coming to check in with Dutch before riding off again, or to grab some of Pearson’s cooking before passing out, and riding off once they woke.

With all of them practically gone, it only leaves you, the other girls, Dutch and Molly, and two other men who are usually too drunk to remember their names in the camp.

“That’s the usual for ‘em,” Tilly’s brow quirked as she watched the old man pick up a banjo and start playing horribly with the way his drinking addled his fingers.

When he butchers a tune he aimed to play, he and the other slightly younger man in god’s cloth began to cackle manically.

“Their names are Uncle and Reverend Orville Swanson. You’ll find them at the bottom of a bottle more than anywhere else. They’re rarely sober enough to be much good to anyone.”

Which, isn’t surprising.

Uncle, as you find, is an eccentric man. He’s lived a long life, and there is some wisdom about it. Was it earned through hard work or hardship? You doubt it. It’s rather obvious that Uncle prefers a life of extreme leisure than productivity. But, he does tell good stories at the campfire, some of which you’ve sat down to listen to with the girls. You doubt that more than half of them are true, but what does it matter when they are so enthralling.

As for Reverend Swanson, he’s a quiet man. Reserved, self-conscious. The girls tell you that he rarely is every social unless he’s drunk, or high on morphine. He’s fighting an addiction, one that’s crippled him for some years, and you can tell that any moment he spends sober from either leave him feeling a guilt he can’t bear to describe. So he constantly numbs himself, wandering with Uncle who “medicates” himself just as often, leaving them to be a right pair of fools. You feel nothing but pity for him, especially once it all wears off.

But as they come and go, there’s other you hear about as they come in and out of camp.

The Callander brothers, Javier, Bill, Charles, and a man named Hosea. They’re all names shared with you.

From what you hear, Hosea is Dutch’s second, or about the closest to a second leader that the gang has. He’s apparently the brains behind everything, or as Karen likes to call him, the voice of reason, keeping Dutch from going too overboard with his plans and theatrics.

“He’s currently out workin’ somethin’ else,” she had told you, “But I can’t wait for you to meet him. He’s the best.”

As for the rest, they filled you in bit by bit.

The Callander brothers, Davey and Mac, were a vicious pair of bastards as they put it, always quite violent and ready to brawl. Uncle even tells you of a story about Mac, in which he apparently took on fifteen sailors at a saloon in New Austin and won. Davey was not as wild, but that didn’t mean much. They’re a duo to be trifled with, and with their youth brings naivety to their chaos. They often get themselves into trouble, and usually are found in a jail cell waiting to be bailed more often than not.

Javier was usually the life of the party, charismatic and always singing away. He was also one of the more grounded men in the gang, and took no shit from no one, especially when Micah or Bill through an occasional slur in. You figured you could appreciate that. He was also described as gentler than the others, and less corrupted than some, believing in revolution and despising those who made the world as rotten as it was. It’s why he was so taken with Dutch, apparently, having heard and supported his ideals. He was still coming into himself in the gang though, despite riding with them for about four years now. But he didn’t manage to lose the man he was in the process.

Bill was... something else. Blunt, and quick to anger. He’d been discharged dishonorably from the military some years before for attempted murder and other misdeeds, and the girls doubt that it was uncalled for like the way Bill calls it. They warned you of his tongue, which always seemed to say whatever was on his mind, especially when he was drunk. It usually earned him a good knock or two from whoever he chose to antagonize, but he never learned from it. Despite his flaws though, he could perform like no other during a shootout, and was damn good at handling certain weaponry and things such as rigging dynamite.

Charles was newer, having joined nearly a year ago now. No one knows too much about him, as he just fell into place with the gang, always hovering. He keeps his distance, and every move he has is calculated and not without a chosen purpose. Not everyone likes him, meaning Micah and Bill, who distrust him and call him slurs for having a black father and a native American mother. It disgusts you, when you find out about the way that they treat him, but you quickly find out that Charles can hold his own well enough to their taunts. Rarely does he raise to them, but when he does, he is quick to put both in their place. Otherwise, he doesn’t try and socialize, and tends to rarely work with anyone ever, preferring to take things on solo. But he’s a damn good shot, and is someone Arthur asks for any time he needs a partner, so you know that counts for something.

But they tell you about Sean — an Irishman who carries just as much interest in bedding a woman as he does in stealing money, in short — and bits and pieces about Lenny — a boy barely old enough to be called a man that took to the life of an outlaw like a child to a game, and then took to Jenny in the same nature.

They sound like a merry troop to be sure, and you try not to show how overwhelming it all is as the girls go down the list of members one by one.

You try to listen as best as possible, knowing you should be learning about the other members, but you’re honest to god distracted.

There’s so much happening, both within the gang, and with you.

Ms. Grimshaw has you and the girls work a little bit of the items in the camp, taking stock and putting up what you can.

You’re not sure how to feel about it yet, but the gang plans on moving after the robbery, from what they tell you. At part of you wonders where you’ll go and how you could make it after such an act, but Tilly reassures you that the gang has escaped after far worse.

You just hope that it will go as smoothly as she makes it out to be, and you try to go back to working on gathering up what you can.

It isn’t until evening the day prior that Charles finally arrived and you met him for the first time.

He offered a small nod to you, but nothing more before he was helping move things that were too heavy for you and the others. With his help, you managed to get one wagon packed, and you felt accomplished with the way your arms and body ache.

But it didn’t seem to satisfy Ms. Grimshaw, who had you and the girls and Charles back at it again come morning. Your arms felt as though they were about to fall off, and the girls weren’t fairing any better. Charles took pity, and he snuck past Grimshaw’s hawk of an eye to grab you and the girls something to help.

“It’s sage and some other herbs, like ginseng,” he told you, having pulled it out from his coat, “Grind that up into your food. Helps out when you need it most.”

You took them, grateful, and he smiled before disappearing back into the camp.

It had helped, and your body was feeling less and less like it was falling apart. You made sure to pocket the rest that you hadn’t used, and went back to another hard day of work.

Time flew like the birds overhead, the sun moving from its highest point into the sky until it was soon sinking below the caps of the mountains off in the distance. You figure that tonight will be time off well-deserved, as Ms. Grimshaw finally lets up for the first time in a few days.

She has you work with Pearson, however, who was needing help with provisions at his wagon.

The two of you talk, and you find out about his past in the navy. You never would’ve guessed, with how he is now, nursing a bottle of navy rum and talking about his days at sea like Uncle around the fire. But you entertain him with simply listening, taking stock of what food you had left in the camp. It’s obvious that no one quite listens to him whenever he tries to speak of it, with the way he keeps on thanking you for being such a good ear to him, but you tell him it’s no trouble at all.

You spend a few more hours at his side, and once everything is written down and he looked at the numbers, he can’t help but heave out a curse as he lifts the cast iron pot he uses for stew out of his wagon.

“We’re runnin’ low— much lower than I’d ever like,” he huffs and puffs, a grunt leaving him as he finally places it onto its stand and turning to where he can point the ladle in your direction, “You think you can cover dinner while I go into to town to order supplies?”

You blink at him, and you look towards the pot with weary eyes, “Well, uhm... I could try, though I’ve never cooked for this many people before—”

“If they’ve eaten what I make, then you’ll be just fine,” Pearson assures, and he sighs, placing his hands at his back and shaking his head, muttering something under his breath before looking back at you, “Send Charles out to grab something if need be. He’s the best hunter of all of us. He at least doesn’t use his shotgun to hunt rabbits.”

The last part is spoken with a bit of reservation, and you know that there is a story behind such a statement, but Pearson is already lugging on his coat and heading out towards the entrance to camp.

“I won’t be gone too long, but if you do have any issues, just ask Ms. Grimshaw to set you right.”

“Sure will,” you say, knowing you more than likely won’t.

Pearson nods to you, and continues his heavy gait. You shake your head as he leaves, turning back to his station and wondering what in the world you could manage to come up with.

Looking at the ledger Pearson had scrawled up, you knew there wasn’t much. Some odd cans of vegetables, a few apples, a case of beer, and some loaves of bread. The meager list formed a grimace on your face, and you looked back to where the pot swung leisurely, almost accusing with its vacancy.

Not one to admit defeat, you pursed you lips, and tied up your hair as a plan began to form in your head.

You called for Charles, sending him out with a quick list of ingredients you scratch up for him. He nods at you, taking your orders without complaint, and sets off as soon as you finish telling him what you need. In the meantime, you chopped a few vegetables that weren’t too far gone on you as you’d cleared the wagon.

Fresh firewood was placed under the pot, and you lit it once you got enough water and the vegetables placed inside to slosh around. When it finally got to a boil, that was when Charles came back.

“I got a deer outside of camp. Saved you the fuss and went ahead and cut the meat. Figured your hands were full enough as it is,” he tells you, handing you pieces of meat wrapped in formerly white cloth.

“Thank you so much, Charles,” you beam at him, and he sends a smile to you in kind before heading back to manage the campfire off to the side.

You make quick work of it all, putting the meat inside of the pot to get it going. As it roils in there with the softening vegetables, you have an idea, and you run to your lean-to to grab what you need.

The herbs that Charles had given you the day before fall into the pot, your free hand spooning your concoction together as it steams. The air instantly starts to pick up the fragrance of your newest ingredients, and you grin at the way that your mouth waters in response.

The girls and Uncle come over shortly thereafter, their noses sniffing and eyes curious. They look into the pot with some amount of disbelief, as though they didn’t expect the source of that scent to be coming from it.

You laugh at their trepidation, assuring them. Karen looks at you like you hung the moon while Uncle snags a beer from the case you pulled out, as jovial as ever.

“A pretty woman who knows how to cook? Figure I’ve finally died and gone to heaven!”

“Not quite,” you laugh, and you shake your head as you tend to your stew once more.

It’s not until it’s completely dark out that you hear a bit of commotion a bit off, more towards the entrance of the camp. It’s two voices, and you move to peek past Pearson’s wagon, only to see where Charles is laughing as someone approaches.

Much to your surprise, it's Arthur, who’s grinning and punching Charles in the shoulder lightly.

Arthur is quick to leave him be though, with Charles having taken up the most recent patrol, and you try to duck behind the wagon as he turns to head into camp. You’re smiling, that’s for damn sure, because you didn’t realize up until that point how much you had truly missed him.

But, he doesn’t come to you first thing. No, he heads to Dutch’s tent, and the smile you have falls away as you watch the outlaw greet Dutch from where he was leaning against the front pole, that book of his in his hands. They exchange a quick greeting, and Arthur pushes past to enter.

You’ve forgotten that Dutch was there, it seems, when you move your eyes back to him and find that they meet your own. His face is impassive, and he tilts his head at you, having noticed your attempts at nosily ogling. With a cut breath, you break eye contact, and force yourself to get back to your task at hand.

When a few seconds have past, you do glance up from under your lashes to see Dutch finally turn, and head inside of his tent.

You have no idea what they could be talking about, and you wonder if Dutch is going to having any questions pertaining to you. Because his interest in you has yet to abate, much to your dismay, and you know that he more than likely will have something to say to the man who brought you here.

It does worry you some, but all you can do is continue cooking and hope your distractions won’t botch everyone’s meal.

And, it isn’t until some hours have past, a bit into the night, when Arthur finally gets the chance to approach you.

The vegetables are in the pot, growing softer as it boils alongside the fresh meat inside. It’s getting close to done, and the smell it has is something that makes saliva pull into your mouth. The girls have congregated around the fire, already a few beers into the night, as both Reverend Swanson and Uncle throw back their own, with Uncle also playing on his banjo.

They’re all busy with their singing, hollering away when Arthur works his way up to you, catching you by surprise from where you had been prepping some extra meat on the table.

“Made a meal outta that one, didn’t ya?” he heckles, and your head jerks up at his voice.

“Oh,” you breathe, and you look down to where your hands are reddened from where you’d been working it in with some leftover herbs, “Guess I am... Kinda feel like a kid playin’ in mud.”

He chuckles, coming closer as the girls lean and sway on one another, Uncle’s fingers blurring across his banjo as Charles smirks at them from the lip of his beer.

“Think you got a minute to talk without their ears?”

You hum, looking towards the stew. You figure that it should be alright, if the conversation were brief enough.

“Sure, let me just clean up real quick.”

Arthur nods, stepping aside to wait for you.

Quickly, you wipe the blood off your hands and wash them in a basin. You scrub at what has dried or gotten on you, washing till your skin is a well-earned shade of pink. Then, you shake your hands, wiping them about as dry as you can on the small apron you borrowed from Pearson.

Now finished, you head over to the outlaw leaned against the corner of Pearson’s wagon.

The moonlight catches on the brim of his worn hat, outlining it in a bright blue as you come forth. The rest of him is illuminated by the campfire, with orange playing about his face and his stubble, casting his features in stark shadows as he nods to you.

Without a word, he straightens from where he had been resting his hip on Pearson’s wagon, and turns from you. He motions with his head for you to follow, and you quickly fall in place beside him as he puts distance between you and the people at the fire.

The opened collar of his red shirt catches in the wind, and he grabs a cigarette from his satchel at his side with a match. With a quick flick of it against his holster, it lights, the brightness of the flame nearly blinding as he burns the end of his cigarette, then snuffing it and tossing it away.

Taking one quick drag, he looks to you, voice quiet, “How you been?”

“Alright, I suppose,” you answer, and you shake your head when Arthur offers you his cigarette, to which he shrugs and takes another pull as you continue speaking, “Your days been kind to you?”

He exhales, “They been busy, alright. But I’ve been gettin’ along just fine.”

You hum, nodding as you both come to a stop a few yards away from the bustling life around the fire. It’s quieter, enough so to where you can hear the drawl of the crickets and cicadas, and you take a deep breath, smelling the smoke from Arthur and the fire.

Arthur takes a few more decent and deep pulls on his cigarette before he’s done, and he crushes it under the toe of his boot before looking at you. He takes his hat off, running a hand through his hair before talking.

“Dutch told me he talked to ya.”

You freeze then, and Arthur looks away, his face set harshly. You let your eyes wander too, looking away towards the girls’ wagon across the camp as you frown yourself.

“Yes... He did...”

Arthur makes a gruff noise, and his hands grip onto his belt tightly, “I figure he was a bit pressin’... Told me you knew a bit about the ferry, the one he plans on robbin’.”

“Don’t know too much. Just things I overheard while I was in town,” you huff, shaking your head and crossing your arms, “But he acted like I knew the damn shipment down to the last item. Took me to his tent and everythin’.”

And, as cold as ice, Arthur edges, “He do anythin’?”

You blink at Arthur, surprised by his inquiry. After all, him being Dutch’s right hand man from what you’ve seen and what you’ve been told, you’d expect him to not be so untrusting of the man. But then again, from what you’ve experienced with him so far, you figure any supposed loyalty to him comes with grains of salt if you knew any better.

“No. Just asked me a few questions, made sure I knew not to go runnin’ and lettin’ the law know about y’all’s plans... Pretty much what you’d expect.”

“He threatened you?”

You shake your head, kicking the ground with your boot absently, “Not really, at least, not outright. But I ain’t a dumb broad, either. He’s been keepin’ an eye on me ever since he overheard Karen blabberin’ away to me about it.”

Arthur curses sharply, and he moves his hands to his hips, “I’ll have a talk with him.”

His eyes widen though, as you grip onto his forearm then. The outlaw looks at your hand, and glancing between it and you, confused.

“Don’t,” you about beg, your voice softer than the sounds of Uncle’s banjo playing into the night, “I doubt it’ll help,” you let your hand fall away then, and Arthur loses some of the tension that had him as rigid as he was, “Dutch is just paranoid I’m gonna tell the law. I’m a stranger, after all, taken in on your insistence. It’d be odd if he were welcomin’ and trustin’ out the gate, ‘specially if I know about your upcomin’ plans. Not sayin’ I particularly enjoy this, but I’d be more concerned if it weren’t this way.”

“Well, if he ever gets cross with you, let me know. Just because he doesn’t have a reason to trust and let ya in yet doesn’t mean he’s got to be cruel about it.”

You smile at that, and you nod once, “I will... Thank you, Arthur.”

He rubs at the sharp line of his jaw, humming.

You look back over to Pearson’s wagon, and sigh, “Well, I best be gettin’ back to the stew. Pearson let me cook it tonight, so I aim to not burn it for my first time.”

At that, Arthur tilts his head, his lips pulling into a wide grin, “You cooked it?”

“Sure did! Pearson’s been busy goin’ through the supplies and making sure we have provisions before we move again, so he asked me to take it on while he went into town to get some more. I may or may not have used some herbs Charles gave me, so I hope you don’t mind somethin’ a little different.”

“Ah, I welcome it gratefully. ‘Bout tired of the same grit served up every night,” Arthur takes a few steps backwards, still facing you as his lips quirked and he used two fingers to salute to you as he moves towards his tent, “See you when it’s ready, miss?”

You laugh, shaking your head, “See you in a few, Arthur.”

Arthur nods once to you before completely turning and making his way back to his tent, leaving you to chuckle and head back towards the wagon.

Thankfully, the stew has done fine while being without your supervision, and it smells delicious as you stir it together.

The girls have since stopped their singing, but they drunkenly gossip around, laughing and snorting as Karen does an impression of Grimshaw nagging them. It makes you chuckle to yourself, and you begin to gather clean bowls and beer for the poor, hungry faces that begin to collect around the fire.

After a few more minutes and testing the meat, you declare the stew finished, and you call out loudly to the camp.

Uncle is the first to grab some, stumbling some as his plump, rosy cheeks bunch together with his grin. You laugh at him, but hand him a beer bottle you filled with water when he comes to you for a drink. You do the same with Swanson, who’s also none the wiser.

The girls come next, and then Charles. They all thank you as they get their portion of stew, hungrily eyeing it and murmuring about how starving they are. It humors you, and you smile proudly as they all gather around the fire, talking about how good it is in between their discussions or drunken rambling.

Finally though, when you’re grabbing yourself a bowl, Arthur arrives, sniffing the air and looking rather pleased with what he gets from it.

“Damn woman,” he grins around a chuckle, “That smells divine!”

“Taste’s it too!” Uncle slurs, and he leans back to drain the rest of the bottle, only to fall over in the process.

You and the others laugh, the old man grumbling something unintelligible from where he lays. Arthur ends up snorting before turning his attention back to you, his mirth plain as day.

“Well, I’d like to see that for myself. If you don’t mind, Ms. Broce?”

You take the bowl you’d made and hand it over to him.

“Tell me what you think, Mr. Morgan.”

As you go to fix one for yourself, you watch Arthur as he grabs a generous spoonful, his eyes not once leaving yours. That is, until he gets the spoon into his mouth, and he groans, having them slip shut for just a moment until they jolt back open, wide with surprise.

“Shit,” he says around his mouthful before he swallows, nodding to you, “I’m impressed, Ms. Broce. This is probably the best stew I’ve ever ate!”

Your blush is light, but still there as you tuck a loose strand of your hair behind your ear, “Glad you like it.”

“I don’t like it, I love it,” the outlaw corrects, and then he nods to the only log available by the fire, “Care to keep up old habits?”

Grabbing two beers, you step forward, “I’d be offended if we didn’t.”

The two of you head over and sit down, and the girls burst into a fit of laughter as you join them at the fire. Across from them on a stump, Charles eyes them, eating quietly and shaking his head as he smiles around his food.

It almost... feels like a family.

Your broken out of your reverie, however, when Arthur sighs loudly, and you look over to him as he finishes yet another spoonful of his meal.

Joking, you jab your spoon at him, “Had I known you’d all like it this much, I would’ve tried to make more.”

“Oh, please do,” Arthur begs, and he shakes his head, “I’d go huntin’ more often if you’re the one cookin’. Then again, I’m sure you’d be amazin’ at that too, considerin’.”

Your cheeks burn at his words, and you laugh, “I haven’t hunted in a while...”

“Right,” Arthur pauses, and then glances at you from the corner of his eye, “Say, have you tried to go since you been here?”

“No, I haven’t left at all since you brought me. I think Grimshaw would have my head otherwise,” sighing, you tease at your food, “Even then, it’s not like I have anythin’ to hunt with.”

“With that rusted cattlemen of yours, I’d have to agree... But you can always borrow a gun.”

At that, you shake your head, words somber, “Borrowin’ from the gang is the last thing I should do right now...”

Arthur scowls softly at that, but he doesn’t press. Instead, he turns to Charles, actively changing the subject from the way it bugs at you.

“How’d your end of the job go?”

Charles perks under his attention, and he looks between the two of you, “It went well, thankfully. I was able to get the shipment detail off one of the men working at the pier. Took a few beers and an hour or two at the saloon, but I managed. Now we won’t be goin’ in blind as we were.”

Arthur grins, “That a boy, Charles!”

You look between then them, your brows furrowed as you eat your food.

“How’s your scheme with Hosea going?” Charles inquires, “Last I heard, Hosea was workin’ on your contact the past week or so up in Strawberry.”

“It’s goin’, I suppose. We ain’t had much luck with it, despite its promise... But what can you expect with real estate?”

At Arthur’s words, you can’t help but blurt, “Real estate?”

Arthur hums, nodding, “Yeah... There’s a good plot of land goin’ up for auction by the bank in Blackwater. Havenwood Plantation, was it?”

Surprise gets you then, and you blink, “Wait, _the_ Havenwood Plantation? The one owned by the Whittmores?”

Intrigue gets ahold of Arthur, and he pivots more towards you, eyes narrowed, “You know about this place?”

Charles looks to you as well, and you try not to fidget under their gazes. Shifting some on the log, you nod, and try to not feel scrutinized under the attention.

“Yeah, everyone in Blackwater does,” you say evenly, not faltering under his gaze, “It’s a few miles out from Blackwater, across the Upper Montana River near Riggs Station... They grew a huge batch of cotton, last year. Last I heard of the family though was about a year or two ago...” as Arthur mulls over this information, you ask, “Why’s it bein’ auctioned?”

“Fella who owned it died about two weeks back.”

You frown, a solemn feeling budding in your chest as you put two and two together, “Ah... Claudius Whittmore... My dad worked for him once, when his crops got overrun one year not too long ago. He was kind.”

Arthur tilts his head, and he juts his chin up then, “You know anythin’ more about ‘em?”

“Nothin’ too much... About a year or so ago now, when his daughter Emily was engaged. She did it without him knowing, got hitched to some man she’d grown up with. But when she told Claudius a few days before her wedding, he made her break it off. Was the talk of the town when her fiancé packed up and left. No one ever saw him again. That’s all I can really remember, at least, of anythin’ with importance...”

“Well, you definitely know more than Hosea and I combined,” rubbing at his chin, the outlaw beside you exhales, “Maybe you should talk to him, once he gets back. Man’s better at piecin’ things together than I’ll ever be.”

As though you’d seen a ghost, you pale at that, “Oh, now... Not sure how much help I could be... I— I never quite have worked anything as complex sounding as a real estate scheme.”

“Trust me, me either. And it shows,” the outlaw sighs, “But that’s for another day...”

Arthur stands, popping his back as he goes to stretch.

The girls have already gone to bed it seems, and Uncle has passed out against the log he’d fallen over some time ago, not even bothering to have righted himself. Reverend Swanson is not much better, having passed out on his side right in front of the fire. As for Charles, he’s already disappeared, gone quietly like the shadow he is.

“Think I’mma finally head to bed myself,” Arthur groans, taking a hand and rubbing haggardly at his neck, “I’m beat.”

You stand too, but you move over to the logs across the way, grabbing the discarded bottles and bowls from tonight’s dinner, “Well, I better clean this up before Grimshaw or Pearson set in on me.”

“Thank you for dinner, it was delicious,” he tells you, and he tips his hat to you as he makes his way towards his tent.

Beaming gently, you wave him goodbye, “You’re welcome. Goodnight, Arthur.”

“Night, Ms. Broce.”

He leaves, and now, you’re the only one left at the dying fire. At least, apart from Swanson and Uncle, who snores obnoxiously from where he is draped over the log in a pathetic way.

As you clean up, gathering the dirty bowls and tossing what little is left of the stew at the edge of camp, you wonder what your future has in store for you, now with everything that’s going on. With Dutch looming over your shoulder, with Arthur asking you for insight on his scheme. It’s all so strange.

Very strange indeed.

**\---**

The next morning is rather uneventful.

Ms. Grimshaw seems to spare you, since you had cooked and cleaned up after dinner last night, and it left you with time you didn’t expect to have. You grew bored, and you took the time to visit D’or and feed her a few apples you were able to get off of Pearson.

She had eaten them just as eagerly as you expected, still looking far too thin. But, if there was any consolation of you being in this gang, it seems that she has enjoyed the hay bales laid out for the other horses.

Charles had been there when you had arrived, and he told you about how much D’or set in on the hay when he put it out this morning. You expected him to criticize you, to shame you for letting your horse get to this point, but he doesn’t. You’re guessing Arthur or someone else told him of your position before you got plucked up and put into the ranks of the gang.

He even gives you a sugar cube, telling you that she has a sweet tooth, and it made you smile as you gave D’or her treat.

She already looks better for the time that she’s been here, however short it may be. But there’s a spark back in her, something you haven’t seen in a while— and it makes your heart soar.

And so, with the time that you have to yourself, you take to brushing her coat and cleaning her up as she eats, a happy rumble coming from her the entire time before you finally bid her goodbye.

Once you’re back in camp though, you get straight back to work.

Pearson hadn’t gotten much of what he needed, as the shop was expecting a shipment in soon, but he was able to grab a few more bits and pieces of food. You help organize and put it away, the task much easier since you’d fixed the wagon up yesterday.

As for laundry, the girls had it all caught up by the time you were done, and you played cards for a bit, giggling at how Karen took on quite the personality during games. Mary-Beth, however, had the best poker face, and she cleared everyone but Tilly out.

You didn’t think much would come of today, with how it had been going. But you were soon to be surprised.

Because it’s about midday, when Hosea finally returns.

You had no idea of his arrival until a few cheers rung out through camp, and you turned to see even Dutch whooping from his tent with a wide smile. He and a few others came forward to greet the old man, and you lost him in the swarm of bodies that congregated around him.

It had been some time before you got a good look at him, or even met him face to face, but it all came to a head as you turned from Pearson’s wagon, finding him waiting on you with a smirk playing his lips.

He’s an older man, with all of his hair already having gone silver, but he’s much more pleasant and sprightful than Uncle, who’s still passed out cold from the night before. His expression is fond, and it reminds you a bit of your father as he nods to you.

“I’m guessin’ you’re the mighty Ms. Broce,” he states, and he tilts his chin up.

“Don’t know about mighty, but the name is right.”

“Ah, a woman with spirit, such a fine thing to see,” Hosea chuckles at you then, and extends out an arm, gesturing back out into the rest of the camp, “Care to walk with me?”

You nod and come forward, “Suppose I could.”

Hosea hums, and he begins his pace. You fall in beside him as he walks, heading near the back of the camp to where a few more tents reside, hanging out under the overhang of a few large oaks. The leaves jostle in the wind, crinkling and breaking up the sun that filters from above. The fractured rays dance upon the canvas, and you look ahead as you walk beside Hosea.

“Afraid I haven’t been here since you’ve arrived,” he says, putting his hands behind his back, “I’m sure the girls have filled you in on who I am, knowin’ how they talk. Figure I just missed you by a day or two, otherwise I would’ve told ya myself.”

You snort, nodding, “Yes. They’ve given me the rundown on a few things since I got here some days ago.”

“Well, just don’t feel like I’m intimidatin’ or anythin’. I’m more of a tired old man than anything else. My brutish days have long since passed,” a breath leaves him then, and he looks to you, “Arthur has told me a little about you, if that evens the playing field.”

“Then you figure my brutish days have yet to begin. I’m— I’m not used to this life here.”

“Good,” Hosea states, hardly pressed, “I’d be more concerned if you were. Not that I wouldn’t be against it, but trouble comes hand in hand with folk like us. You’ll be a breath of fresh air, I’m sure.”

His peculiar words get your attention, “What do you mean?”

“It’s been a while since we really picked up anyone who hasn’t run in this life one way or another. Even sweet Jenny has had her run-in with the law— in fact, it’s why we found her. We’re nothin’ but a collection of degenerates, I tell ya,” Hosea sighs, and he smiles softly at you, “But you, no. You’re nothin’ of the sort, and that’s rare to come by, with us.”

You blink, looking away as you walk side by side. You’re not quite sure what to make of his words.

“But, enough about that,” he starts, “I did come to you for a reason, apart from meetin’ ya, of course.”

Stopping then, he faces you, and you still across from him.

“Arthur mentioned you could help us out with our little scheme of sorts.”

You grimace then, shaking your head and placing a hand on your chest, “Well, I— I told him I never did anythin’ like that before... I don’t know how much help I’d really be.”

“You seemed to know a bit about the folk we’re dealin’ with, so I think that counts for somethin’. If anythin’, you can just give us backgrounds. Arthur and I have some things collected that you can even look over, see if you can perk up on something. It’d be a huge help.”

You bite at your lip, considering.

“You don’t have to do it, if you don’t want to. It’s just if you want.”

You could tell it would disappoint him, and unlike the others in the camp so far, you find that isn’t something you want to do.

You may have just met Hosea, but you can tell he’s a good man, or at least, one of good disposition. He seems well enough, and you already can tell you’re going to like him, with how he is.

Besides... If it’s just looking at some papers and talking...

“I could try— but no promises on it bein’ anythin’ spectacular!”

At that, Hosea claps your shoulder and beams, “No wonder Arthur likes you.”

Such a statement leaves you gapping some, and Hosea heads towards the back corner of the camp where a tent almost as large as Dutch’s resides.

“Come on now, then! We have work to do!”

Rushing after him, you get back to his side as he briskly walks.

You come upon the tent you had noticed, and only then are you able to see inside. One of the flaps is pulled back, and inside, there is a table covered in a littering of papers, alongside a board that has multiple things tacked upon it in the back. They flap a bit in the wind, almost threatening to fly away.

But what truly catches your eye is a familiar body occupying a chair, a paper in hand, and a scowl creasing his face.

“Arthur!”

The outlaw lifts his head at Hosea’s call, and his eyes move over to you. A smile grows on him then, and he gets up to meet you both as you approach.

“Seems like Ms. Broce is gonna lend us a hand,” Hosea informs him.

Knocking gently at your shoulder, Arthur laughs, “Welcome to the team.”

You smile a bit awkwardly, obviously treading in waters far out of your comfort zone.

“So, uh, where do you want me to start?”

“Well, Arthur can get some stuff we’d like you to overlook together, and you can fill me in on these Whittmore folk.”

Arthur parts from you both then, heading back into the tent and looking through the documents as Hosea guides you inside as well. As he comes upon them, he gestures to two chairs sat by the table for you to sit. It’s a bit tight, but it managed to be spaced enough to where Arthur can easily maneuver about their mess.

You grip at the skirt of your blue dress, and you fiddle with the fabric as Hosea takes his seat, waiting for you. You duck you head and follow suit, settling yourself into the chair opposite of him as Arthur works about the table beside you both. There’s a discouraged expression pulling at his features because of the mountain of stationery before him, and you take some solace in the idea that at least you’re not the only one out of their element.

“Ms. Broce?” Hosea prompts, and you nod, remembering his question.

“Well, uh, I don’t know too much. ‘Bout told Arthur everythin’ I knew last night...”

“You mentioned an engagement,” he reminds you, and you brighten some.

“Yeah, between Emily and a young man named Nicholas Bourbaki. He grew up with her, on the plantation.”

Hosea leans towards you, eyes squinted, “You speak of it like it didn’t end well.”

“That’s ‘cause it didn’t,” you say, and Hosea’s brow pinches, “It was broken up by Claudius Whittmore. He’s Emily’s father, and he’s the man that passed away and who owned Havenwood Plantation. Been in his family for generations...” you pause, thinking, “Which, why isn’t Emily takin’ it? She’s his daughter, makes sense it’d go to her, bein’ the sole heir.”

Hearing your statement, Arthur stops fluttering through the disarray of papers and shakes his head.

“Nah, bank’s got it. Hosea and I discovered this whole thing while scoutin’ the bank out, tryin’ to find out about the ferry. One of the tellers talked about how it was possessed by the state. Ain’t no mention of a daughter, even. Hosea and I didn’t even know Claudius had one until you told me last night.”

You look to Hosea then, “Wait— did she die too?”

“Not sure,” Hosea motions to Arthur, who comes closer, “Check the paper I brought with me. If dates go by right, then Mr. Whittmore’s obituary should be published in that edition, knowing how late the print is.”

Arthur nods, and goes to where a few bags are resting on the cot behind Hosea. Beside them is the paper in question, and Arthur grabs it, handing it off to you first.

You immediately go looking for the obiturary, scouring about the pages as Hosea speaks once more.

“So this engagement... You think it has anythin’ to do with Mr. Whittmore’s demise? Possibly a jilted lover robbed of his almost-wife?”

Thinking then, you shake your head, ”No... Nicholas wouldn’t have done such a thing. Claudius practically raised him, when his father died when he was about two.. It was before Emily was born, but his father, Eli, had been murdered in cold blood. No one could figure out who’d done it, and the law was searchin’ for months, from what I was told as a kid... But the Whittmore’s took him in and kept him all his life until he left. He would’ve been orphaned and on the streets if it weren’t for that man, and he isn’t disregarding of that.”

Arthur huffs, “Maybe he got mad because he couldn’t marry into a family like that. He came from nothin’, makes sense that he’d wanna hold onto it when he got a taste.”

“But I met him myself, whenever my dad helped Claudius with a rat infestation in his crops... I doubt he would. He seemed to care ‘bout them both a lot.”

“Well,” Arthur starts, words a little cold, “Quite a few people know how to deceive others under the guise of love.”

You frown, but Hosea is quick to pull your attention back onto the subject at hand.

“Motive or not, let’s keep the theories at bay until we get the rest of the actual picture,” he says evenly, and Arthur lets out a breath, “This Emily you speak of, is she mentioned in the obituary?”

Scanning the page, you find the section you need, and you go through the list of names. It takes a moment, but you come across it, finding Claudius’ name printed in dark, bold ink.

Starting, you take in what is written, and once your finish the small passage, your brow furrows.

You stare at it, unable to make sense of what you read over and over, knowing differently.

“Ms. Broce?” Hosea asks.

“I—” you bite at your lip, shaking your head in denial, “This isn't right...”

Hosea takes the paper gently from you, and you don’t miss the way that Arthur watches you both from the corner of his eye, still off put from earlier.

“Claudius Whittmore, beloved citizen of West Elizabeth, the most loyal men of all. Passed away at home, surrounded by those he loved...”

Hosea comes upon the sentence that had thrown you for a loop, and he squints, trying to see if it would change what the paper said. You can tell he’s confused, and he tries to work through it all the same.

Growing restless, Arthur snatches the paper from Hosea, who looks just as lost as you are.

You both watch as Arthur reads the obituary as you had, only stopping at the same place. At first, there’s a flash of surprise on his face, but it is quelled away in a few seconds after some more consideration.

His lips press together before he parts them, the expression he has being one of stone as he reads the rest aloud.

“Survived by none.”

You rub at your forehead then, and Hosea shakes his head as your frustration builds.

“Sounds like he didn’t even have a daughter,” Hosea huffs, and he looks at you.

“I know he did! Ask anyone in Blackwater, if you ain’t happy with what I told ya!”

Hosea waves a hand your way, shaking his head, “It’s not that I doubt or don’t believe you. You’d have no reason to lie about somethin’ like that... Just— something else is going on here. Somethin’ we don’t quite understand as of yet.”

“That’s for damn sure...” Arthur mutters, throwing the paper onto the table and looking just as short as you are.

“I don’t know why they’d put that! I mean, his wife Bernadette passed away about ten years ago, but that was it! And I never heard of Emily dyin’ herself!”

The older man stands, itching at his chin as he walks past Arthur to gather their papers into his hand, all half-hearted stacks. You and Arthur watch as he packs up, determined as you both are confused.

“Uh, Hosea?” Arthur asks, eyeing him oddly, “What’re you doin’?”

“What’s it look like I’m doin’?”

He gestures to his bags, mocking Arthur for not picking up on the obvious.

Arthur only raises a brow at his tongue, “You lookin’ like you’re gettin' ready to leave...”

“That’s because I am. We all are.”

Hosea turns to you both as your breath catches in your throat.

And, just as sudden as Hosea’s declaration itself, Arthur takes a step forward, his arms waiving in objection, “ _Whoa whoa whoa,_ old man, reign the horse in!”

The old man looks tired, and you watch as he shakes his head. There’s a set way about him— one you know that Arthur won’t be able to shake as he argues.

“Arthur, the ferry is comin’ in about a week and a half. We only have so much time to make all that we wasted on this damn scheme worth it,” Hosea looks to you then, and it seems that is when he seems to review his words, “Now, the invitation is there, Ms. Broce. I can understand if you don’t want to come along, but—”

“She isn’t.”

You gape, looking to Arthur then with your eyes narrowing.

“Now, Arthur, I know you know better than to speak for a woman like that.”

The outlaw huffs, shaking his head gruffly, “Not that at all, Hosea. Just that Ms. Broce ain’t cut out for this like we are. She doesn’t know a damn thing about comin’ along and workin’ a job— she’d end up makin’ a show of herself! She’s better off stayin’ here in camp, where she knows what she’s doin’.”

At his scathing words, you’re taken aback. You never figured that Arthur would say such things, least of all about you. In the short time you had gotten to know him, he had never given that impression to you.

But what’s said is said, and by the grim look on Arthur’s face, his lips pressed thin and his shoulders squared, you know that he won’t take them back even if he could.

It edges something in you, cuts at it as though his words were knives. Boiling, your anger roars to the surface, and you feel its heat.

Your gaze feels with ire, and you glare Arthur’s way.

“Why don’t you just say I’m useless, while you’re at it.”

Arthur’s face pinches, but he remains unfazed, pointedly ignoring your bite as he continues to explain his outburst to Hosea.

“She’s been sheltered her whole life, Hosea... Doin’ this—we’d be draggin’ her into somethin’ she has no understandin’ of or experience with. She’d get herself killed!”

“Dyin’ or not, and try as we might to prevent such a thing, I still think the decision should be hers to make in the end,” Hosea says plainly, and Arthur looks like he wants to go off before the old man faces you, “What do you think, Ms. Broce? You in, or you out?”

You look between them both, your heart feeling like cannon fire in your chest. Arthur looks like he wants to argue further, wants to convince you to what he believes is the right choice to make. You know it will only garner more degrading, more of what he truly thinks when it comes to what you are and what you aren’t, and it makes you put your foot down.

“She’s not—”

You cut him off, stepping forward until you’re right in front of Hosea, ignoring Arthur to your side.

A part of you knows that Arthur, despite such a barbed way of delivering it, does have a somewhat of a point— that you’ve never been anything but a hunter’s daughter your whole life.

You’ve never robbed anyone, never fired a gun to kill anything more than an animal, never had a bounty on your head.

You _were_ sheltered, living the life of someone who didn’t worry about real estate schemes or ferry robberies, who didn’t take on debts...

But that’s not what you are any longer. You couldn’t be any of those things, can’t be spared from any of those things.

Not with you now among the ranks of the Van Der Linde gang, by choice or not.

It would come down to something, or maybe when you least expected it. Maybe when you least needed such a thing to happen, and when you could only rely on yourself to get you out.

A life like this, it was only a matter of time before you ended up in such a corner, Arthur’s opinion be damned.

And unlike how you ended up here, you wanted to walk away for the first time with a choice. A choice that you wouldn’t let someone make for you.

So, with your voice as steady as ever, you give Hosea his answer.

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/promptask
> 
> (I'll also answer various questions or other things relating to this fic, as well!)


	3. Blackwater III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With his lips pressed into a fine line, Arthur nods begrudgingly. 
> 
> “Fine... But it better be worth it.” 
> 
> “Oh, I’ll make it worth your time,” Garrett grins, and he looks back to you, “And of course, I will definitely make it worth yours.” 
> 
> Arthur somewhat steps in front of you then, blocking out Garrett. Whispering, he asks you. 
> 
> “You okay with this?” 
> 
> “Not like I have much of a choice either,” you hiss, adding, “’Sides, what do you care?” 
> 
> Arthur shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t know why I asked...” 
> 
> “Now that you two are done bickering some more, I think we should go ahead and set out on this. We don’t have much time before this all slips through our fingers,” Hosea tells you both, and he turns you and Arthur around, pushing you forward, “And I intend to make every minute count. Thankfully, I’ve saved us some time by packing a suit just in case.” 
> 
> “Hosea, don’t tell me we’re—” 
> 
> “Yes, Arthur. You’re gonna get dressed up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: I used grammarly on its own to beta this, so do expect some errors. I unfortunately didn't have the time to attempt properly fixing this chapter up, so do expect something wild and insensible. Apologies! I'll be on to fix it ASAP!
> 
> Oof. Long time no see?
> 
> So this chapter was a doozy! We finally sunk our teeth into the real estate scheme, and a few other things! I have to say, I think I had some fine writing some of these scenes here, and I hope you all have just as much fun reading 'em!
> 
> Yet again though I have found myself in the same boat as last time: this got too long and so I'm having to extend the prologue by ANOTHER update, but I aim for it to hopefully be the last one. It may take two, but rest assured we will be going onto chapter 1 via the game here soon. I promise the chapters then won't be as lingering as this here. I can't make anything easy for myself, lol.
> 
> Also, I have to say, I also found the ambient soundtrack for RDR2 online and it has helped _so much_ when it comes to writing scenes! I feel like it really helped out with the visuals, and I'm sure you'll be able to tell when I found these videos as you read along. So, maybe, if you're able, take a listen while you're reading! It may make things more interesting!
> 
> Now, for the chapter notes:  
> \- There is a bit of a twist that some may find a bit bothersome with the real estate scheme. **So caution while reading is advised.**  
>  \- There is a little bit of violence in this chapter, but nothing super crazy. Mainly Arthur just being a gatekeeper for the reader, lmao.  
> \- Bickering. Lots of Arthur/Reader bickering. Prepare yourself. Promise that things will work out though!
> 
> Also, I'd just like to say another thank you to all of you who have just BLOWN me up both here and on Tumblr with this story! It's been amazing to read your comments and your asks that you sent to me across both sites. It's really helped encourage me and let me know that what I'm making isn't just to my sole enjoyment! I'm so happy this story means a lot to you guys, and you're coming along for the ride! I can't thank you enough!
> 
> Alrighty, enough chatter! Now onto the update!

If there was one thing you could say about yourself without a doubt, it’s that you were stubborn.

As a kid, if you wanted to go do something and your father denied you, he’d find you sneaking off or well into something he told you not to do.

You remember one time in particular when you were nothing but a girl, maybe six or seven, and he explained to you that you weren’t big enough to handle a bow. It had you frustrated, and while he was charring yet another bit of rabbit for dinner, you had grabbed his bow off of his horse and snuck into the trees.

He had found you a little while later, with half of his quiver emptied and a nearby tree with arrows sticking from its trunk and the ground around it. Thankfully you hadn’t managed to shoot yourself or something else just as vital, but it didn’t change his upset at the ordeal. And, even after punishing you and forbidding you from the bow, he discovered that you still tried to practice against his word. And eventually he gave up, and you finally got to properly learn to shoot a bow.

He had realized then that, much like your mother, there was not much that could dissuade you if you set your mind to something.

And it’s stayed that way, as you grew up. If it wasn’t a bow, it was something else. Breaking horses, shooting a rifle, getting to hunt your first predator. As you passed on from being a young girl to a young woman, your father became tempered with the reality that his daughter was not one to be swayed, especially once he fell ill.

You have never backed down, and not when someone told you no, but when they didn’t think you were capable.

So as Arthur’s eyes flash with something akin to offense at your answer to Hosea, you puff your chest, and only give your attention to Hosea.

“I may not be _experienced_ like some people,” you start, voice dripping with bitterness as Hosea grabs his bags, “but I believe this is as good of an opportunity as any for me to start learnin’.”

“That it is, dear girl!” Hosea pipes up, and once he gets close enough, he wraps an arm around your shoulder to guide you away, leaving a stewing Arthur behind, “Now, let’s get your items together while poor Arthur licks his wounds.”

You can hear the outlaw behind you curse hotly, it being followed by a heavy gate that just speaks of his frustration. A small part of you feels bad, maybe guilty— the last thing you wanted was to be fussing as you were, even if you were so angry with him.

But Arthur was going to have to get over it at some point. If not now, then later. And you figure it’s best that he go ahead and learn just like your father did when you were a kid.

Hosea catches onto you, noticing the way you somewhat look over your shoulder to catch Arthur storming off.

“He’ll get over it,” he assures you, letting his arm fall away, “He means well, that dimwit, but he just doesn’t know or want to go about it in a sensible way.”

You huff, crossing your arms, “He definitely could try.”

“Oh, with that I am in agreement.”

You both go to your lean-to, and you sigh, looking at what little you have.

“Not sure what I could bring that’s of much help...” you murmur as Hosea takes stock of what you have.

“You only have dresses?”

“’Fraid so. Had to borrow clothes from the girls.”

Hosea rubs at his chin, nodding, “Well, guess we’ll have to pick up somethin’ for ya in Blackwater... Dresses won’t help much when it comes to our line of work, I’m afraid... But, do take one. Just in case.”

You quirk a brow at his words but do as instructed. You use the leather bag the girls had given you with clothes they no longer wore, and you move them appropriately, leaving nothing but one article behind as Hosea gives you a satisfied nod.

“We’ll get the rest of what you need in town. Thankfully, I’m already packed, and I still have plenty of provisions from when I was in Strawberry workin’ our contact. We’d just have to see if Arthur is good to go.”

You nod, but don’t move to follow the old man as he steps in the direction of Arthur’s tent.

Stopping, he turns to you, eyes calculating you under the brim of his hat.

“You not comin’?”

“Feel like Arthur and I need to cool off a bit,” you mutter, averting your gaze.

“Well, you’ll have to do so on the ride to Blackwater. One part about runnin’ in a life like this is that your personal problems sometimes have to take a backseat with what’s at hand,” Hosea waves a hand then, motioning for you to follow, “So come on, better to bite the bullet than to let it fester.”

You sigh, shaking your head and begrudgingly following Hosea.

Each step towards Arthur’s tent is forced from you, and you can feel your tension rise as you arrive upon Arthur’s tent. The outlaw is already inside, a bag in his hand that is about half full from where he is shoving clothes angrily inside of it. He’s facing away from you both, shoulders drew up as he yanks another shirt from the pile on his cot.

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Hosea,” he says sharply, and you almost wince at the frustration in his voice, “Just get everythin’ together and I’ll meet you up at the horses.”

“Alright. But we’ll be needin’ to stop in town to visit the tailor. Ms. Broce needs better attire for our trip.”

At that, Arthur guffaws under his breath, and he shoves a pair of pants into his bag, “Who knew that only an outfit was stoppin’ her.”

Hosea hums, and you glare at Arthur’s back, feeling your fury rise once again.

So much for cooling off...

“Just get your things packed together and stop your whining. You’re a grown man, not a petulant child,” Hosea chastises, to which Arthur sighs, “We’re leavin’ as soon as you’re ready.”

You leave without a word, and Hosea remains silent as you leave towards the entrance of the camp, and where the horses reside outside of it.

You just... You can’t believe Arthur. He’s acting so childish, as though you’d done something just as immature. The way he’s acting, the words he’s saying... You never expected this from him.

It leaves a sour taste in your mouth as you and Hosea approach your horses, and D’or immediately raises her head, sensing your upset.

She whinnies softly, nodding once to you. You go and pat her along her muzzle, reassuring her despite the storm that quells inside of you.

“It’s okay, D’or,” you whisper as Hosea mounts up on a horse beside you, a gray pinto by the looks of it, “Don’t worry, girl.”

She calms at your words, and once you’re satisfied, you attach your bag to her and saddle up yourself.

Once you’re both mounted, Hosea nods to you, looking down to D’or, “She’s a fine horse.”

“That she is... Had her since she was foaled, purebred fox trotter, she is.”

“I’ve had Quicksilver here for a while, he’s nothing but a mutt. Patience came to him once he got out of those young mustang years,” you turn D’or away from the hitching post as Hosea does then, “He’s a lot like Arthur in that way. Though, I think my horse can be better behaved.”

That makes you laugh before you happen to hear the clearing of a throat.

“Maybe that’s ‘cause he can’t understand ya as I can,” Arthur mutters, and he goes over to his gray roan, “Come on, we’re wastin’ time now.”

Hosea sends a quick look to you, and you suppress your smile as Arthur mounts, heading over to Hosea’s side once he’s ready.

The three of you ride off in silence, passing Javier on his patrol on your way out. You quickly hit the road, riding towards Blackwater as the sun begins to crest overhead.

You get past Manzanita Post before Hosea speaks up again.

“My guess is that, once our shoppin’ trip is done, we’ll be crossing the Upper Montana River sometime come evenin’. I know you have your kit on Boadicea, Arthur, so we’ll set up camp there for the night.”

Arthur offers only a grunt in response.

At his lack of words, Hosea looks to you, “As for you, Ms. Broce, Arthur mentioned that you were a trapper’s daughter?”

You blink at his question, and you hold onto D’or’s reigns a little tighter as you speak, “Yes... Born and raised, essentially.”

“Then, if it’s agreeable with you, you can hunt for some dinner once we‘re settled? I was thinking— rabbit sounded fantastic.”

You hum, “Sounds doable.”

“All you got is that rusted cattleman,” Arthur huffs, “Sure you could get a rabbit with that?”

Your hackles raise at his barb, and Hosea shares a look between the two of you from his position in the middle, “I wouldn’t use a revolver... Rabbit’s too small. I’d have to get a bow or make a trap.”

“Well, you obviously know what you’re doin’.”

“I should think so!”

Bristling, you jerk your attention back to the road, but Hosea speaks up then, “Sounds better than huntin’ rabbits with a shotgun, wouldn’t you say, Arthur?”

“Oh, Hosea, don’t you start...”

“You see, Ms. Broce,” Hosea continues, leaving the outlaw beside him to groan from irritation, “Arthur here used to think that huntin’ was just killin’ things, didn’t matter how you did it. I remember you brought those poor rabbits back, and they were more buckshot than meat!”

You remember Pearson’s comment the other night, and you can’t stop the giggle that escapes you, “Oh! I think some others told me about that!”

“Well, now we have Ms. Broce to hunt for us, so I doubt you’ll be needin’ to chip your teeth any longer.”

Hosea’s chuckle still carries into his words then as you start to see the church come into view, “Ah, now don’t be sour Arthur, we’re merely pokin’ at ya!”

The outlaw mumbles something under his breath but offers nothing more. Hosea spurs Quicksilver, pushing forward just a bit, taking the lead.

“Alright, Ms. Broce and I will head to the tailor. Arthur, you visit the gunsmith. Grab a decent repeater and revolver, and whatever ammo you think we’d need. Meet us up once you’re done.”

Without needing further instruction, Arthur urges Boadicea forward, getting into a gallop to pass you and Hosea as he separates at the fork in the road by the church. The dust he riles up gets a cough out of you, and Hosea shakes his head.

“He’s a damn ruffian when he’s moody, I’ll tell ya that...”

You and Hosea and come to the end, where the dirt road changes into cobblestone. D’or flicks her head as the ground underneath her hooves changes, her shoes clopping and clicking against the stone as you match pace with Hosea. Together, you head towards the tailor, near the dock in the back right of town.

It’s a new shop, having just come up in the past few months, and it’s obvious with the way its bright paints have yet to fade like the rest of the businesses surrounding it. Hosea comes up to their metal hitching post, steadying Quicksilver to a stop before hooking him up to the post.

You follow suit, situating and tethering D’or as well before hopping down, swallowing as you look at the tall windows of the shop and the fancy clothing that are on display there.

“We’ll be gettin’ somethin’ simple for ya. Just some shirts and pants. A good pair of boots too,” Hosea starts walking up the curb, regrading you over his shoulder, “Do you have a hat of any kind, Ms. Broce?”

“Never been one for hats really.”

“Well, they help with the rain, but most of all the sun. Keeps you from gettin' too hot or burnt, so we’ll pick one of those for you too,” as you catch up, coming behind him as he goes to open the doors of the tailor’s shop, he chuckles, “We’ll make an outlaw of you yet, Ms. Broce!”

You offer up a half-smile at the man as he holds open the doors before you.

You enter in, already feeling out of place among the fine clothes set before you. The room radiates decadence, leaving you feeling alien as you look about the curtained walls and the gussied-up mannequins.

“Ah, welcome!” the tailor, a man dressed in a simple black suit comes forward, his brown mustache moving with the grin that graces his lips, “Are you looking for some attire today?”

“Why yes!” Hosea chirps back at him, and he pats you on the shoulder, “We need a few clothes here for the misses. Somethin’ more tuned for work, if you don’t mind.”

You watch as the tailor looks you over, evaluating you. You try not to cringe some under the attention, and you stiffen as he quickly goes to lead you by your shoulder.

“I have a few garments in mind! Now, miss... If I could just know your size...”

He takes you to the back, where you spend a good amount of time being measured and then being thrown into a dressing room with a few things to try on. There are a few shirts and a few sets of pants, all ranging in color, design, and material. All would definitely be doable for you, you’re sure, but if feels like a rock settles into your stomach as you put them on.

You have no idea if Hosea knows you cannot afford this outfit, that there was a reason why your dresses at the camp were ones the girls gave to you. How he expected you to purchase these kinds of clothes were beyond you, especially as you saw the price tag on a few items from the tailor’s selection.

Looking in the mirror, you grimace, taking in the sight of yourself in the mirror.

You’re currently wearing a sage-green shirt, unbuttoned at the collar and loosely tucked at the waist. The almost-black jeans you wear, upheld by white cotton suspenders, are the first pair in a while that have no rips or holes in them. It all feels itchy against your skin with how it follows the definition of your figure.

As for the boots, you’ve been given a simple, black pair— better than the flats you have been wearing so far, especially for what you’re going to be getting into.

You feel like an idiot wanna-be gunslinger— a child playing dress-up.

“Doin’ okay in there?”

At Hosea’s voice, you swallow, and you call back to him, “Yeah...”

“Well, come on, I'm sure you’re dressed now!”

Hesitantly, you pull the crimson curtain back, your fingers pinching the velvet fabric as you face Hosea and the tailor in all of your glory.

Hosea whistles, taking in your outfit while the tailor looks tickled pink at his work.

“I must say, you do have a knack for color,” Hosea tells him, and he focuses back on you, expression kindred, “I think you look absolutely stunning, Ms. Broce.”

You blush, averting your eyes, “T-Thank you...”

“Seeing as you had such an eye, sir, I think we’ll be grabbin’ all that you offered to us,” Hosea tells the tailor then, and your head shoots up.

“Hosea—”

He holds up a hand and goes to fetch something from his pocket. The tailor watches on, extremely interested as Hosea reveals a money clip stuffed to the gills.

Your jaw drops, and your heart stutters in your chest as Hosea grabs a few bills out, handing them over to the tailor.

“I think you’ll find that will be more than enough for our take today.”

The tailor is quick to grab the money, his face gleeful and bright, “Thank you, sir!”

You’re too flabbergasted to say anything, and you watch as Hosea holds up a finger.

“Oh, just one more thing...”

The tailor doesn’t stop Hosea as he goes over to one of the nearby mannequins. You don’t know what the man is exactly up to until he zeroes in on one, smiling as he makes a decision.

There, perched upon its featureless head is a hat— it’s a charcoal color, and on the band looks to be a fine, white ribbon. He grabs it, taking it off of the mannequin by its pinch, and brings it over to you.

Wordlessly, he sets it upon your head gently, taking a step back and admiring his final touch.

“Why sir, good choice! That looks stunning!” the tailor nods to you, “You’d make any cowboy proud, miss!”

You try not to flush even further at that praise.

“I believe that’s all we’ll be takin’ today,” Hosea tells him then, and then he nods to you and the clothes that you had resting in the changing room, “Go ahead and grab those, Ms. Broce. I expect Arthur’s been done for a minute yet with his errands.”

Speechless, you do as instructed, grabbing the clothes with slightly unsteady hands. You’re still reeling, unable to find the right words and Hosea thanks the tailor, and you both take your leave.

And, by either curse or prediction, as you leave the tailors, your arms swamped in your newly acquired clothes, you find Arthur standing with Boadicea outside. At the sound of the tailor’s doors closing, his head swivels in your direction, and you don’t miss the way his eyes widen upon him seeing you.

“You get those guns?” Hosea asks, already going to mount up on Quicksilver.

Arthur, still staring at you up until he realizes he’s leering, shakes himself out of it, looking away and to where a repeater has been stored on Boadicea’s saddle. You don’t know what to make of any of it.

“Yeah... Cost a few bucks, but they’ll serve us right.”

“Good. Give them to Ms. Broce.”

Arthur stops at that, while you stare at the old man as he gives Quicksilver a good pat. The outlaw across from him fumbles some, obviously not expecting such an outcome.

“Hosea...”

You found your voice then, and both men look to you. Your clench your fingers in the fabric of your new clothes, and you swallow thickly as they stare at you.

“I— You didn’t have to—”

“I did, dear girl. If you’re ridin’ with us, you need both the proper clothes and especially the weapons. Last thing I want is for somethin’ to happen to you because of a damned skirt or a poor pistol.”

Arthur comes up then, holding the revolver. His face is grim, and you can tell there’s something he wants to say, but he refrains. There’s still tension between the two of you, even as you take the pistol from him. His green eyes catch yours for a second, and something passes between the two of you— what exactly, you’re unsure, but he steps away without a word to you.

“Alright, get your clothes packed up, and then we’ll be off.”

You go to D’or, setting your new garments onto her saddle as you pack them one by one. It doesn’t take you long, but by the time you’re saddled up beside Arthur and Hosea, the sun is already set, and the sky is quickly losing its fiery color to the hues of twilight.

“Best we get gone, now,” Hosea states, and he spurs Quicksilver forward.

You and Arthur follow his lead, bracketing him as you did before. You all leave Blackwater as easily as you came, trotting out and only speeding up once you’re past the church. Afterward, you nudge D’or into a light gallop, keeping speed with Hosea as he eventually turns off of the main road, and to where you can hear the river nearby.

You all cross in silence, D’or throwing her head back some as she crosses last, a little too unused to this area as you come out onto the other side of the bank. Hosea jerks his head to both you and Arthur, and you push up the incline before you until the land levels out into a grassy field.

“This seems as good a spot as any,” Hosea tells you, dropping off of Quicksilver then with a haggard sigh before turning to you, “We’ll get the camp set up, and in the meantime, how about you track some rabbits down for us to eat?”

Quietly, you nod and murmur, “Yes sir.”

Arthur doesn’t pay you any attention, already going into his saddlebags on Boadicea without so much as a glance in your direction.

So, it seems like he’s still putting up a front with you... Well, two could play that game.

You spur D’or, going further out onto the bit of plains before you, leaving Hosea and Arthur behind. The night is well along, and you struggle to make out certain things in the dark, even with some help from the moon coming up into the sky.

You come upon what seems to be the main road, with a wide dirt trail being etched into the ground before you. You make sure to take in a few landmarks, a singular tree a few feet away standing as your marker for when you need to ride back.

It’s quite out here, except for the chirping of crickets, and the thudding noise of D’or’s hooves hitting upon the earth below. She breathes roughly through her nose, and you can tell that she is tired from your trek through the river as you as for her to slow. Giving her a good part beforehand, you dismount, grabbing your cattleman and surveying the area around you.

It’s mainly grasslands, with a few shrubs and thicker patches here and there. Mainly, the land is flat and clear, something you appreciate as you keep your eyes out for any movements among the foliage below.

It seems as though you were clear at the moment, and you set forth, going to one of the bushes and starting your work.

You break a few of the branches off, the wood being soft enough to bend as you need, but not stiff enough to break. Your fingers make quick work of it, tying and fixing it with some twine in your saddle as you made a simple trap. Once finished, you go over to a fresh patch of grass, and you rip up the fresh sprouts.

Eventually, it’s set and baited, placed near where you noticed some fresh tracks upon the ground. You’ve gone back over to D’or, waiting with her as she grazes, your eyes watching from where you can see some slight movement from afar.

Something snaps, and to your delight, you see a huge jackrabbit struggling in your trap.

You’re quick to rush forward, not chancing the twine to hold it as it struggles. It’s a good size, and it nearly kicks at you as you make a move to grab it.

The noises it makes are ones of struggle, knowing that it won’t be able to escape. So you make it quick and spare it from further panic with a quick snap.

The jackrabbit hangs loosely from your saddle as you come back upon Arthur and Hosea, who are both situated around the fire they’ve managed to light. Upon your return, Hosea greets you with a warm smile from his bedroll, and he looks only more pleased with the sight of your kill.

“Well well well, Ms. Broce!” he praises, “Looks like we’re eating good tonight!”

You offer Hosea a slight smile as you dismount. But, from beside the man, Arthur’s eyes trail on you from where he’s cleaning the new repeater he picked up from the gunsmith. His gaze is dark and stormy, despite the light from the crackling fire before him.

And, just as quickly as you had noticed him, you look away, feigning ignorance as you ignore his heavy presence.

“I managed to get him with a trap so we won’t be chewin’ on any lead tonight,” you say proudly as you lead D’or to the other horses, and it earns a chuckle from Hosea, “Thought you’d appreciate that.”

You hear Arthur grumble from the side, and Hosea slaps at his knee.

“That I would! ‘Fraid my teeth wouldn’t hold up,” Hosea belts out a laugh after he finishes his line, and Arthur sets the gun down in his lap abruptly and rolls his eyes.

“There’s a lot about you that couldn’t hold up, old man.”

Your eyes widen, not expecting such a jab. Curiously, you gauge Hosea, who still hasn’t lost his twinkle, even at Arthur’s poking.

“Ah, Arthur, there’s no need to be sharp of tongue when sulking,” Hosea chides with humor gilding his words, “Rejoice! Without Ms. Broce here, you’d be cleanin’ your shotgun right now. Be thankful!”

The outlaw huffs, looking out into the fields of moonlit grass as you sit down at the fire, the jackrabbit dangling from your hands.

“Jestin’ and all aside, either of you got a knife of sorts I could work this with?”

To your surprise, one of Arthur’s greased hands disappears to his side, and from his holster, he pulls out a hunting knife. Hosea eyes you two, a small smile playing on his lips as you awkwardly lean forward and take it. Arthur doesn’t quite meet your eyes, especially when your fingers accidentally brush, leaving a bit of blackened gun oil to rub off onto your skin.

“Thank you...” you murmur.

Arthur nods and goes back to cleaning his gun like the task never interrupted him.

You hold the knife in your hand, your grip firm on the wrapped handle. It’s a larger, thicker knife, and despite its obvious look of use, you can tell the edge is as sharp as ever.

And it is, as it makes quick work of the jackrabbit. Hosea watches you with some interest, working a weed in the corner of his mouth as he hums a tune to the chirping of the crickets around you as you take the jackrabbit apart bit by bit.

After some minutes, you have a good array of meat to cook, and you have a small, accomplished smile gracing your lips as you place the last bit in your pile by the fire. It’s been a while since you hunted and fixed up what you got, and it’s a fine feeling as you take stock of your efforts.

“Looks good, Ms. Broce! You made fine work of that rabbit,” Hosea praises, and he sits up straighter, pulling the weed stalk from his mouth, “Bet you could even sell that fur from it for a good penny, too.”

“Thanks,” you move over, kneeling by the fire where a small, metal grill piece stands from where it is staked in the dirt, “Let’s just hope I don’t ruin it over the fire.”

“Doubt you could. Arthur here told me you’re a decent cook.”

You blush, and Arthur breaks away from his gun for the first time since he offered you his knife. His face is set into a hard scowl, and Hosea meets his soured expression head on.

“Hosea,” Arthur warns lightly.

“What? Can I not tell her things you said?” Hosea raises a brow at Arthur, and after a second more of staring, the outlaw breaks away and shakes his head, cursing under his breath as he almost forces his repeater back together, “My my boy, you are in a mighty mood.”

Suddenly, Arthur stands, leaving you and Hosea to watch as he snaps the last piece of the repeater in place.

“I’m gonna check if this thing shoots worth a damn,” he says, completely ignoring Hosea’s snipping.

He nods to you both curtly before putting the repeaters strap around his chest and walks away, heading towards Boadicea without so much as another word. He saddles up quick, wasting no time to snap the reigns and to send Boadicea into a gallop.

Something in your chest stutters at that, and you look back towards the fire, trying not to feel any worse as the sound of the mare’s galloping fades with distance.

“Damn child, that one,” Hosea huffs, and he rubs a hand at his face, looking far more tired beyond his age.

You don’t say anything, but you do start to cook the rabbit, albeit half-heartedly.

Hosea notices your fog, and he sighs, his words soft, “Don’t beat yourself up, Ms. Broce. Arthur’s just workin’ through his feelings. ‘Course, there are better ways to do so than speakin’ the way he does and shootin’ things, but that’s better than some men I know...”

Your lips give an aborted quirk at that, “My father used to chop wood when he was upset... He practically took down a few trees when my mother died.”

Hosea is silent, and you flip the piece of rabbit over as you blankly stare into the flames below it.

“I used to make him so mad, he’d go into town just to buy stumps. He’d hack away, sometimes for days, until it was nothin’ but logs to be burned away. I had a knack for pullin’ his strings like that... But I’m not bothered by what he does. I get that we all have our own ways of dealin’ with things. I just— . . . I don’t like bein’ the thing that Arthur is so upset about...” you admit.

Hosea’s expression is one of pity when you meet his eyes, and you take the cooked rabbit away from the flames.

“He just cares about you. Far more than he likes to admit, and far more than he likes to show,” Hosea explains, “I guess that, since the beginnin’, he’s always been like that. So attached and ‘fraid of lettin’ anyone on... He plays dumb, acts like he doesn’t know any better when he damn well does. I raised him better than that.”

At that, you blink, “You raised Arthur?”

A sad grin plays on Hosea’s lips, and he nods once, voice wistful, “That I did... Known the boy since he was just fourteen or fifteen— ‘bout twenty years ago now. He was, for all intents and purposes of the word, an orphan. He was livin’ on the streets, tryin’ to get by, and only had the world give him a harder time for it. Both Dutch and I saved him, and we made this gang together.”

As you place another piece of fresh meat over the fire to cook, you ask, “You, Dutch, and Arthur? You made the Van Der Linde gang?”

“Yep! That we did!” Hosea chuckles, the memories still golden after all this time, “It was just us three for a while. But we made things happen, I can assure you! Once we had Arthur taught right and proper, we did our first robbery... Got five thousand cash from a bank, we did.”

Your breath stops short, your mind blanking at such a number.

“What’d you do with all that?”

“We gave quite a bit to the poor. Helped a lot of people,” Hosea’s giddiness falls away some, and you can see him sober up, “It was an easier time, then...”

You nod, turning your attention back onto the meat and thinking some. A few moments pass, but you find the words.

“So you taught Arthur everything he knows about bein’ an outlaw?”

“Yes, and then some,” Hosea hums, “Dutch taught him how to read, but I taught him how to write. That boy has always been more about writin’ a book than readin’ ‘em, anyway.”

Thinking of Arthur’s journal, it doesn’t come as quite a surprise... In fact, it actually makes sense.

“He let me see his journal, once,” you say softly, “You did a good job with him.”

“Consider yourself lucky then, Ms. Broce. Arthur may be givin’ you a hard time, and he might be actin’ like he’s dumber than a pile of rocks, but you mean more to him than your squabble,” Hosea leans back onto his bedroll, crossing his arms behind his head and crossing his feet, his attention turned towards the sparkling night sky, “Because not even this old man got such an opportunity.”

And as Hosea shuts his eyes, going back to humming that sweet tune he’d been reminiscing in earlier, you have to wonder if that really held any merit.

**\---**

Arthur had come back sometime later, having blown off a lot of steam.

You and Hosea had already eaten, and you had cleaned up for bed, already half-unconscious in your bedroll as you heard the light trot of Boadicea bringing him back. You didn’t raise though, not wanting to bother Arthur from where he sighs, setting his repeater by his own bedroll before nearly collapsing onto it.

Across from you, Hosea was already asleep, and his light snores filled the air as Arthur haggardly started taking off his satchel. He stops though, looking towards you.

Thankfully, the fire was all about out, only offering partial flames and mainly embers for warmth, but not enough light for Arthur to see that you were awake.

He sighs, finally taking his satchel off and then shaking his head.

“Don’t know what I’m gonna do wit’ you...” he murmurs.

He lays down, turning to where his back is mainly facing you. It only takes him a few moments, but you know he’s fallen asleep easily enough as you notice the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

You try for some time to fall asleep.

**\---**

You wake suddenly, eyes blinking open to the sight of a boot kicking dirt into the remains of the campfire. You gaze follows up it, and you find Arthur standing near you, looking down your way.

“Get up, we’re headin’ out.”

Blearily rubbing at one eye, you rise, sitting up halfway as you try to find Hosea. The sun is already out, and a bit too bright for early morning. You’re guessing it’s a few hours after.

“Where to?” you ask.

“Strawberry. Hosea wants to meet his contact back up if he can. Supposed to be catchin’ the train later this afternoon, from what he said. He already left a bit ago.”

Arthur is in a bit of a better mood today— or at least, he’s more willing to talk to you than give you a cold shoulder. It’s a bit refreshing, and you perk up from your bedroll.

“I’ve never been as far out as Strawberry...”

“Well, guess this’ll be more like an adventure for you than anythin’ else.”

Ah. So there’s still some animosity there. A slight frown works its way onto your face, and you stand.

“Ain’t no need to be that way, Arthur.”

He huffs, “Get your bedroll and come on. We ain’t got time to waste.”

You breathe sharply and gather your things from the ground, your movements gruff and agitated as Arthur walks away.

He’s a strange one, acting one way one moment, and acting entirely different the next. You’re not sure what to make of him, let alone reason to it.

With a clipped whistle, you call for D’or, and you finish tying your bedroll together by the time she finishes trotting up to you. You attach it to her saddle with ease and look over your shoulder to where Arthur tends to Boadicea.

He’s feeding her a carrot, brushing her sides and whispering something to her, low and sweet. She‘s nodding her head, eating the offered food from his palm as she flicks away flies from her tail. You watch as he lowers the brush and puts it into his satchel at his side, murmuring something more before he happens to turn in your direction.

Your eyes catch on one another, and you hold his gaze for only a split second before averting your own, a bit flustered that you got caught staring.

He says nothing though, as he hops onto Boadicea’s saddle. He doesn’t even make a move to leave, and you know that he is waiting for you.

Hurrying, you hitch the last of your stuff onto D’or, and you saddle up once you made sure everything was fastened properly. Then, you nudge her forward, going over by Arthur and nodding to him that you were ready to go.

You two ride in silence, side by side. Both Boadicea and D’or match pace with one another, throwing their heads back and neighing as you turn them both to a light gallop. A few birds fly overhead, and their shadows crossover onto the main road as both you and Arthur get onto it.

The tension between you and Arthur is still as alive and as tough as ever, almost being tangible as it fissures between the two of you during your ride. Despite you both looking at the road ahead, almost pretending as though the person beside them didn’t exist or weren’t there, you know that you both are stewing.

A part of you knows that you’ve been acting like kids, but whose toy got broken at this point, you don’t exactly know, but you can tell that there’s not going to be an end of this for a minute yet. Not with the way that Arthur has been treating you ever since you agreed to come along, and with the way you’ve been reacting to his barb.

It’s going to come to a point. When, and how, you don’t know, but as you both finally ride into Strawberry, allowing Boadicea and D’or to slow into canters as you enter the main road into town, you know that it will be a climax you do not envy.

You decide to drop the train of thought then, in light of looking out for either Hosea or Quicksilver as you and Arthur trot your horses past the train station with neither being in sight.

It gives you the chance to take in the quaint town, and you find your eyes curiously taking in the bridge running across the river that splits the town in two, its railing made with fine deer and elk antlers, something you’ve never seen before. In fact, the whole town has a distinct, otherworldly feeling— but you don’t find it intimidating, rather, something inviting and interesting to see.

It’s as you come upon a curve in the main road that Arthur finally speaks, moving ahead just slightly on Boadicea.

“The hotel is right up here, and the saloon is down the way— you can check there and I’ll check the saloon for Hosea.”

Before you can agree, Arthur spurs Boadicea ahead the rest of the way, leaving you and D’or behind as he rounds the corner like he’s been meaning to book it this entire time.

You nearly mutter a curse under your breath, but you're left with no choice but to hitch D’or outside the hotel and to check to see if Hosea happened to be around.

You take the steps, the unfamiliar clicking of your boots on the wood and making you feel a bit odd as you enter the hotel. Inside, it matches the grandeur of the town itself, with huge antlers arranged from the lights on the ceiling, towering over the keeper at the front who stops cleaning the corner upon your entry.

“Why hello miss!” he calls to you with a smile, “Care for a bath or a room today?”

“Unfortunately, no, I’m looking for someone,” you come forward, stopping at the counter, “He’s an older man, a little taller than me. He was wearing a blue hat, green jacket.”

The keeper makes a face, but after a second of thinking, his face lights up a bit, “Think I’ve seen a man fitting that description, actually... He’s been here the past few days, keeps company with another man if that helps. ‘Fraid I haven’t seen him come in here for a few days, though. You may have just missed him.”

You feign disappointment at that, stepping away towards the door, “Ah, figures... Thanks anyway!”

“You’re welcome, miss! Come back if you need anythin’ else!”

You nod your head once towards the man before turning back around to leave. You curse under your breath, heading over to D’or to mount up to try and find the saloon.

It doesn’t take long, finding Boadicea outside. You, unfortunately, can’t find Quicksilver, so you’re unsure if Arthur had any better luck than you when it came to finding Hosea.

Hitching D’or beside the other mare, you head inside, parting the saloon doors to come upon a scene within itself.

Despite it being mid-day, the drunkards are still about, singing wildly and making such a racket that you nearly startle at their volume. Against the wall, the piano plays wildly, the man working the keys having just a good time as any as you are drowned out in all the noise and commotion.

A man nearly knocks into you as you enter, drunkenly stumbling and cackling as he falls over backward, spilling his beer all over himself and the floorboards below. You make a small noise of disgust, stepping over him in his delirium to try and find Arthur.

Before you can go too far though, you’re stopped at the bar by some man who’s obviously had a bit too many whiskeys to drink. His words are slurred to the point where you can barely understand him, despite him not making any sense to begin with. You try to get past him, but he pins you back onto the bar, caging you and not letting you go easily.

“Wasss the matter miss?” he hiccups, his bushy eyebrows pinched with frustration, “You don’t like talkin‘ to a gentleman?“

“I do, but afraid I have yet to meet one,” you huff, and you go to push past him again.

He gets more aggressive, grabbing your hand by the wrist and nearly twisting it as he pins you to the wood of the bar, the edge of its counter digging into the small of your back sharply. You make a small noise, feeling the strength behind the man you didn’t expect him to possess with how drunk he is.

“I’m ‘fraid you don’t know a damn thing about me,” he sneers, the repulsive waft of his breath assaulting your face as he leans in far too close, “Think I should teach you a lesson—”

“You ain’t teachin’ her a damn thing.”

Your head snaps in the direction of that familiar snarl, and you see Arthur, glaring daggers at the man from under the brim of his hat. The ominous air is about him again, and you can’t help but feel small in its wake.

The drunkard, be him brave or naïve, laughs at Arthur, not taking his threatening bravado as anything serious when you yourself damn well know better.

“Who’s you? The law? Get your own whore if you’re gonna t-try—”

Arthur is blinding as he moves, snatching up the man and instantly throwing him down onto the bar. You stumble back, catching yourself like the way Arthur’s fingers grab onto the man’s sweaty nape, digging in and pushing his face down onto the counter until the drunkard’s face is turning red from the pressure.

The piano has since silenced, and all the others in the bar watch as Arthur growls into the man’s ear.

“You’re not gonna touch a damn hair on her, you understand? Doesn’t matter who I am, because I’ll damn well kill ya,” he accentuates the threat by slamming the man’s head down, earning a sharp cry from him below, “Now, you better do the smart thing and head on home. Otherwise, I just might teach ya somethin’ myself.”

Arthur lets him go, pushing him forward towards the door of the saloon and causing the man to frightfully stumble and flee. He stands there for a second, watching to make sure he leaves, shoulders tense from where he stands in front of you, hands balled into fists.

The bar then loses interest, with there being no fight to witness, and everyone begins to filter back into what they were doing before. It’s when the piano finally starts back up that Arthur finally turns, satisfied with his work, and he goes to grab at your arm.

“Come on,” he says, struggling to restrain the anger in his voice.

You’re unsure of what to exactly say as you both leave, and Arthur only lets you go to mount up on Boadicea. You follow suit, getting onto D’or as Arthur scans the streets for any signs of the man he’d just assaulted in the bar.

“Arthur...” you start, and the man refuses to look your way, his knuckles white from his grip on the reigns, “You—”

“A man talked to Hosea while he came into the bar earlier,” he interrupts, leaving you to press your lips together finely as he talks over you, “He’s at the stables with our contact, a little outside of town.”

You glare then, “So you’re just gonna brush off what just happened back there?”

“We’re workin’ a job right now, Ms. Broce. There’s a better time for it.”

“Not with the way you brood!” you jab, earning a nasty side look from the outlaw, “Ever since I agreed to come along on this, you’ve been treatin’ me like a child while you’ve acted like one! I deserve an explanation!”

A few people on the street turn to the argument between the two of you as you trot on, heading towards the stables.

Arthur rolls his eyes at that, “You don’t deserve nothin’ but a ride back to camp. If Hosea knew any better, he shouldn’t have brought you along.”

His words sting, deeper and sharper than you’d care to admit, and it only bristles you further.

“You know, if I knew any better, I’d never have told you jack shit about the Whittmores. Could’ve let you run in damn circles and enjoyed myself for once, and I wouldn’t be dealin’ with you the way you are now.”

“Figures— I’m the only one making a lick of sense, and that makes me a pain, doesn’t it?”

You make a small, outraged cry as you both exit Strawberry, “Oh, you’ve been more than a pain! A right thorn in my side without a doubt, but you’ve given me nothin’ but grief!”

“And you’ve given me nothin’ but trouble!” Arthur argues, and Boadicea flicks her ears back at the vibrating baritone of his bickering, “You didn’t even have the right clothes for this, and you want me to take you seriously?”

Your stomach rolls with that particular jab, “Listen, I didn’t want or ask Hosea to do that for me—”

“But he did! He had to buy you all that, and two weapons for you to even try and come along! You don’t know a damn thing about any of this! You can’t even go into a saloon without bein’ accosted and needin’ savin’!”

Hurt, your voice is low and harsh, “Is that all I am to you? A damsel in distress?”

Arthur opens his mouth, but you don’t give him the chance. Not this time.

“No, I don’t want to hear it, Mr. Morgan,” you snide, and he jerks his head back away from you, his mouth pinched and eyes narrowed on the road ahead, “I think you’ve made it clear enough at this point that you think I’m nothin’ but a damn woman who’s too big for her station, and should stop tryin’. And you know what? I think I’ve had enough of you tryin’ to belittle me,” you pull forward on D’or, your words iced over with how cold they are, “Because if anyone needs to learn a damned lesson, it’s you.”

You spur D’or then, heading in front of Arthur to make quick work of the rest of the road ahead. The stable isn’t too far away, but it gives you the necessary air and space you need from Arthur right now.

You just. . . You can’t believe it.

He had been so kind to you at first, and you had felt so guilty for it. But it was obvious— obvious that he helped you not out of the kindness of his heart or even pity, but because he thought you couldn’t do any better by yourself. That you _needed_ to be saved.

It has you livid as you ride up, halting D’or as you see Quicksilver and Hosea come into view. The old man is laughing, smiling and talking over his shoulder to someone else before he notices your arrival.

When he does, he notices your anger, and he makes a face as he says something to his company before coming up to you.

“Ms. Broce?” he asks, voice filled with concern, “You okay? Where’s Arthur?”

“I’m fine. Angry, but fine,” you get off of D’or, refusing to look and see if the outlaw in question was coming around the bend, “He’s comin’, I just rode ahead of him.”

Hosea hums, knowing there’s more to it, but leaving it be for now. You know that there will be a better time, especially as the man he was with comes forward.

“And who might this fine sight be?”

You look towards the source of that voice, finding a face to match it.

There stands a man around Arthur’s age, who eyes you keenly. What few strands of his tawny hair that aren’t tucked under his hat waiver in the wind, dancing about his brown eyes as he studies you. He’s wearing a fine suit, and you know that, without a doubt, this is a man made of money with high standing.

It’s a little surprising he’s in touch with the likes of Hosea and Arthur.

“This is Ms. Broce, she’s workin’ with Arthur and me on this with us.”

At the mention of Arthur, the outlaw comes riding in, and you try not to feel more offset by his arrival as the man steps forward while regarding you.

“Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Broce,” he offers out a hand, and when you take it, instead of a handshake, he brings yours up to his mouth, placing a quick, soft kiss to the back before speaking, “My name is Garrett Matthews.”

You nod, trying to take your hand back as quickly as possible without seeming rude.

Because you’re not exactly sure what it is, but this man already makes you uncomfortable.

“Ah, Arthur!” he says then, finally looking away from you and to the outlaw that comes up by your side, “Hosea here was just telling me that you and Ms. Broce were joining us on a little... excursion.”

Arthur looks a bit pained from beside you, his face pinched as he looks as though he’s trying his best to come off neutral, “Yeah. We found out a bit more on the Whittmores. Hosea wanted to talk to you about it.”

“Oh, he has mentioned it to me already. A supposed daughter of Claudius’, named Emily,” Garrett looks to you then, tilting his head, “Said you knew about her.”

“I lived near Blackwater for a time, the whole town knows about her...” you tell him, feeling slimy under his curiosity.

“Afraid I’ve never heard of her,” he says evenly, but before he can say any more on that, he goes on to say, “Hosea said that she isn’t mentioned in his obituary either.”

“No,” Arthur speaks then, “It’s why Hosea wanted us to meet and talk. We think somethin’ else is goin’ on with this plantation you’re wantin’. Somethin’ that might put a fork in our plans.”

Garrett frowns, “Now, we don’t want that.”

“No, we don’t,” Hosea places a hand on Garrett’s shoulder, “So, to make sure that this goes off without a hitch, we need to learn about Emily. If she’s still alive, she can lay claim to that plantation as the heir, and you won’t see a single acre, my friend.”

Something flashes across Garrett’s face, something dark and unnamed, and you almost miss it, it leaving as quickly as it came.

“Yes... Yes, I suppose we should see if we can take care of Emily first,” the man nods, deciding something then, “How would you like to go about it?”

All eyes turn to Hosea then.

“I say we should scout the house out. As far as I know, the bank hasn’t touched any of the belongings inside. They’re to be auctioned off just like the plantation,” he gets a wicked look then, and he regards both you and Arthur, “But since I’ve been seen with you the past week here in town, we need some fresh faces to peek inside.”

“Hosea—”

“Now that’s a perfect idea!” Garrett praises, and he looks between you and the disgruntled outlaw at your side.

“You two can pose as potential buyers. See if you can get a tour of the place, or, if need be, you can always try breakin’ in again, Arthur.”

Curiously, you ask, “Again?”

“It’s quite a story, but I met these two while they were attempting to break inside of the plantation house while I was inspecting it,” Garrett laughs, “Decided they were right up my alley for what I wanted to do, so I hired them instead of turning them in.”

“We can talk more about that later,” Arthur grunts, grabbing onto his belt and fixing Hosea with a stony look, “Now, you’re wantin’ us to play pretend?”

“I suppose I am... With the way you two have been bickerin’, you could be the perfect married couple.”

You pale at that, your mouth going dry.

“Whoa whoa whoa, Hosea,” Arthur shakes his head, “Ain’t no damn way I’m playin’ house—”

“I think that would work wonders!” Garrett interrupts, and he claps Hosea on the shoulder, “Now, they’d have to get finer outfits, of course, but just the other day a couple was supposed to inspect the house, but they never showed. They can just say they were late and there would be no need to chance a break in.”

Gaping, you’re still trying to play catch up as Arthur sputters beside you.

“Hosea, there’s gotta be a better way—”

“Not that I can think of. You two already fit the part, and there’s an opening that you can use that’s the perfect cover. The only issue is that you don’t want to pretend for a few minutes,” he scolds, leaving Arthur to quiet, “Now, if we want to get to the bottom of this and leave with our cut, we have to figure out what is going on with this Emily Whittmore.”

With his lips pressed into a fine line, Arthur nods begrudgingly.

“Fine... But it better be worth it.”

“Oh, I’ll make it worth your time,” Garrett grins, and he looks back to you, “And of course, I will definitely make it worth yours.”

Arthur somewhat steps in front of you then, blocking out Garrett. Whispering, he asks you.

“You okay with this?”

“Not like I have much of a choice either,” you hiss, adding, “’Sides, what do you care?”

Arthur shakes his head, muttering, “Don’t know why I asked...”

“Now that you two are done bickering some more, I think we should go ahead and set out on this. We don’t have much time before this all slips through our fingers,” Hosea tells you both, and he turns you and Arthur around, pushing you forward, “And I intend to make every minute count. Thankfully, I’ve saved us some time by packing a suit just in case.”

“Hosea, don’t tell me we’re—”

“Yes, Arthur. You’re gonna get dressed up.”

**\---**

You stare at the mirror much like you did yesterday, and, just like before, you feel like a child, but this time one who’s getting into her mother’s clothes.

The singular dress Hosea had you pack apparently has come in handy. It’s one that you haven’t worn in camp yet, and you’re regretting it a bit with how it looks on you.

Not that it’s bad, per se. Just that it’s. . . not you.

It’s a fancier one, by far, and you’re guessing that it was more than likely one the girls had worn once and never again. The sheer fabric is an offset yellow, with fine lace frilling the top and the sleeves of your arms. Thankfully it’s not bulky, almost like a shall, but it makes you feel no better as you stare at yourself in the mirror.

Hosea suggested you get gussied up— after all, you were finer, richer folk, but that didn’t mean you had to be happy about doing so. In fact, you never liked wearing your hair up as it is now, swept up into the back in curls, and pinned together by a lace headband that had been tacked to the dress.

You wanted to break the mirror, with how much you disliked the reflection it bore.

“Ms. Broce,” Hosea called out from the other side of the hotel room door, “Are you ready?”

Sighing, you figure you better bite the bullet before it fires.

“Yes, Hosea.”

The door pulls back, and Hosea smiles upon the sight of you. You roll your eyes, already having had enough of men’s leering today.

“If you have comments about how I look, please save them,” you breathe out, feeling mighty uncomfortable and out of place in your outfit, “As long as I look the part, that’s all I care about hearin’.”

“Well, rest assured I have nothin’ bad to say,” Hosea comes up beside you, “I think you’ll sell the part just fine.”

At that, you deflate some, whispering, “Do I really have to pretend Arthur n’ I are married? I think I’d rather try and play roulette with my revolver and my foot.”

Hosea’s eyes narrow at the sound in your voice, and he sets a gentle hand on your shoulder, “What’s going on between you two?”

You exhale heavily, the breath feeling as though it carried out more than air as it leaves you.

“We’re just— we got into a fight, right before we got to the stables. We split up at first to look for you, and when I didn’t find you in the hotel, I went lookin’ for Arthur in the saloon... As soon as I got there, a man stopped me. Held me up at the bar, wouldn’t let me go. Got angry I wouldn’t give him what he wanted...” you look down towards the floor, “Arthur got him off me, got him to leave... But as soon as we got out of that saloon, he wanted to pretend like he just hadn’t threatened a man’s life over me. And it just led to us fightin’, and him tellin’ me I’m just another woman always needin’ savin’.”

Hosea hums, mulling over your words. He takes a few moments to speak, but you let him have them, and you try to avoid eyeing the mirror as you fiddle with the sleeves of the dress.

“Do I think he said somethin’ like that? Yeah, I do. But do I believe he meant it like that? No.”

The old man’s words have you peeking from under your lashes at him, unsure.

“He’s frustrated. And when he’s frustrated, his mind doesn’t like to think over what it’s doin’. I raised Arthur to treat women as equals, not items to be had, or saved,” he makes a point to say, “I feel like you two need to _talk_ about what’s goin’ on instead of shoutin’ at each other. It just leads to more bein’ said, more bein’ done. No problems were fixed by just fightin’ over ‘em.”

“But I feel like any time I try to talk, it just ends with us fightin’,” you mutter bitterly.

“It usually does, most times. But that is why you have to try and keep your head instead of losin’ it to your temper. And while I tried to raise Arthur better than that, that is, unfortunately, one of his downfalls— he’s too quick to it,” he sighs, stepping away from you then, “But, when his temper does recede, he’s got the best mind about him. You’ll see.”

“I hope so,” you whisper, and you take one last glance at the mirror before joining Hosea.

The two of you leave the hotel room, and you make sure to thank the keeper for letting you change before you head out to the horses.

Arthur is already there, wearing the suit Hosea had packed. With the way it fits him, you truly doubt if the suit is Hosea’s and if this weren’t by some initial design. He looks too good, too clean cut in it, with the way it fits.

He’s obviously taken a bath and cleaned up his scruff, having trimmed it just a little and made everything look a bit more well-kept like any man of money and nobility would. He’s even used pomade in his hair, sweeping it back and styling it in a way that makes him look like he played poker to get risky instead of getting himself into schemes such as this.

And, as much as you hate to admit it, especially with the two of you fighting as you are, he looks damn good, without a doubt.

He’s already on Boadicea, looking somewhat impatient, but as his eyes turn to you, his jaw slackens some, and you try not to flush under the attention.

It’s some kind of moment, of which nature you’re not sure, but it doesn’t last. Not as Garrett comes forward, completely stepping between you and Arthur.

“Why, Ms. Broce, you look—”

“I know,” you tell him, already fed up with the man, “Now, we best be gettin' to this plantation before I shoot one of you for puttin’ me in this.”

To your surprise, that gets a good chuckle out of Arthur who tosses the bunt of his cigarette down onto the muddy ground below.

“Alright, now that you and Arthur are lookin’ the part, you need to know the part. You’re the Callahan’s, Mister and Misses, fresh newlyweds of money lookin’ to start themselves up with somethin’ as mighty as the Havenwood Plantation,” Hosea tells you as you head over to D’or, “Think that’s good enough for just gettin' you in there for a tour.”

You nod, getting onto the saddle and huffing as you have to fix the shall of your dress, and all about failing. The only way you can get comfortable is to sit about sideways, as anything else would be too undignified, even with the company you have.

“Well, I hate the one to make the comment, but I don’t think you’ll be able to ride on your own,” Hosea nods over to Arthur who looks as though he’s holding back a laugh at your attempts, “Might as well ride with the husband.”

“Hosea!”

“It’ll sell better anyways!” he waves a hand in the air, and you scowl before finally admitting defeat by hopping off of D’or, “Arthur, help your poor wife!”

“You better be happy I like you, old man,” he grumbles, losing all his humor as he moves Boadicea near you, offering a hand, “Miss.”

He says it curtly, and the same could be said for the way you huff, “Thanks.”

You take his hand, settling yourself sideways on the back of Boadicea, grumbling all the way about the blasted skirt that’s damned you in more ways than one. It takes you a moment to get settled, Arthur remaining as still as possible till you begrudgingly lean against the hard plane of his back.

“I’m as ready as you are, _Mr. Callahan,_ ” you grit out, and it earns you a slight chuckle from Arthur as he moves the reigns, urging Boadicea forward.

You whistle for D’or, who perks her ears and begins to follow after all of you dutifully.

Despite the ailing that it causes you, you hold onto Arthur, lest you fall off. Your arms have to wrap around his chest, and you try to keep yourself from looking like an utter lovesick fool as Hosea comes up beside you two on Quicksilver.

“Perk up, Ms. Broce! You don’t look like a happy newlywed of wealth to me!”

“I’ll never be happy for no man,” you hiss.

Hosea’s laugh sounds like a symphony of bells with the way it chimes through the air, and he rides over to Garrett, who’s taken a bit more of the lead as you ride on.

You’re still steaming as Arthur talks over his shoulder to you.

“Remind me to never put you in a dress. It’s like he wrapped dynamite in lace.”

“Consider yourself lucky on that note, Mr. Morgan,” muttering, you add, “But consider it also a warnin’. I’ll be in no mood for any teasin’ today.”

“Trust me, I’ve had my fill too... I doubt we’ll hear the end of it though. Hosea likes to gussy up those who suffer, and he takes great joy in it,” he laments.

“Well, I’ll put an end to it quick. If I gotta look like a damn stuffed goose, then by god I’ll have the temperament of one.”

Arthur laughs at that, and you glare as you catch Garrett staring at you from his horse. He quickly averts his eyes, and you only frown further.

“Who’s this idiot Garrett Matthews anyways?”

Arthur whistles shortly, “Jeez, definitely a snapper today,” he lets on though, continuing, “He’s some tycoon, I think. He’s got money. Lots of it. As he said earlier, we met him while we were tryin’ to break into the plantation house. It was after we heard about it goin’ up for auction at the bank. Figured we could break in and steal some items and just pawn ‘em off for quick money. Mr. Matthews caught us, and instead of turnin’ us in, he offered us a deal.”

“And what could've possibly gotten you two this far down the rabbit hole?”

“Money, of course. A good amount. While it can go up as the auction continues, the bank has a set asking price to start with, apparently. Mr. Matthews is wantin’ some ruffians to come in a see if we can manage to lower it some way, or if we can scare off other buyers. Whatever money we save him, he’ll give us a portion.”

A brow of yours quirks at that, “And you believe him?”

“He already gave Hosea and I a down payment. Three-hundred dollars. Think he means good on that promise.”

You hum, “Huh, he’s really an idiot then.”

“That I do not disagree with.”

Hosea and Garrett begin to slow, and Arthur follows suit. Behind you, D’or also comes to a halt, bobbing her head as she looks to you.

“You’ll be comin’ up on it if you continue down this main road here, afraid Hosea and I must split off as to not blow your cover,” Garrett regards you and the outlaw, “Please, try and find out anything you can on this Emily Whittmore. It means a great deal to me.”

“Hopefully enough to where it means a greater payment,” Arthur gruffs out, and he nudges Boadicea forward with a tap of his spurs, “We’ll see what we can find. We’ll meet you back up in Strawberry once we’re done.”

Hosea and Garrett bid you and Arthur goodbye, and Arthur looks back to you.

“It’d be best if we put D’or somewhere she can’t be seen.”

“We’ll hitch her in the small thicket of woods in front of the plantation and get her on our way back,” you instruct, “I won’t be able to ride her till I get out of this dress, but I’ll be damned if I ever leave her behind.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Arthur says fondly, and he spurs Boadicea into a light gallop.

You head up the road for a minute until the trees you spoke of beginning to appear, and you feel a bit antsy as Arthur heads into them. He goes a decent way into the thicket, making sure that there’s enough coverage so that D’or won’t be seen unless someone went looking.

“Thank you,” you tell him as he has Boadicea come to a stop.

“Just hurry and hitch her so we can get this over with...”

You grab onto D’or’s reigns and tie them around the solid trunk of a nearby oak, and she rumbles at you as you give her one good pat.

“We’ll be back soon, girl,” you promise her, getting back onto the end of Boadicea’s saddle, “Won’t be long at all.”

She seems content at that, going to eat about the grass as Arthur turns Boadicea around, coming back the way you two came.

You’re back out on the main road in only a few moments, and as Arthur heads deeper into the woods where the Havenwood Plantation resides, you can only feel your nerves get the better of you.

“I can practically hear your heart,” Arthur tells you softly as the gates of the plantation come into view, “Just take deep breaths. We’ll be fine.”

“I just— I’ve never done anything like this, Arthur,” you hiss, and you feel as though you’re a child hiding and peeking from behind the outlaw’s shoulder as you come up to the guarded gate, “What if I flub it up?”

“If you focus on makin’ mistakes, you’ll do just that,” Arthur whispers to you as one of the guards comes forward, the shotgun in his hands ready at any moment to open fire, “Just stay quiet, act normal, and we got this.”

You can _feel_ the moment that Arthur gets into character, sitting up a bit straighter and broadening his shoulders. You try and perk up too, hoping you come across as natural as possible as Boadicea comes to a halt right in front of the gates.

“What business do you have here?” the guard asks, eyeing you both suspiciously, “The Havenwood Plantation is closed to the general public.”

“Well sir, we are in no ways the general public,” Arthur even worked on his accent, making it a bit finer and not as gruff and obviously southern, “I’m Arthur Callahan, and this is my wife, Mrs. Callahan. We’re here to inspect the property, seeing as we’re interested in making it our own. The bank should’ve let you know we were on our way.”

The guard’s disposition changes some, “Oh! We were told you were to arrive yesterday...”

“We had a few travel misfortunes. Afraid our ferry into Blackwater ran a little later than intended,” Arthur easily lies, not even breaking a sweat as you watch on silently, “But we’re here now if that’s alright?”

“Oh, yes, go ahead, come on in,” the guard steps aside, going to the gate to unlatch and pull it back, “The entire grounds are being guarded to keep out unwanted degenerates, so rest assured everything is intact and in good condition.”

“We appreciate your efforts, sir,” Arthur tips his head to the man, and he spurs Boadicea to walk through the gates.

The guards keep an eye on you though, and you swallow thickly as you look away, making sure to not try and bring more attention to yourself.

You can see them talking to one another as you head onto the gravel of the path leading up to the house, shutting the gate behind you. You’re more freaked than ever now.

“Told you we be fine,” Arthur reassures you then, and he pulls Boadicea to a stop as you come to the front of the estate, “Now come on, we got some investigatin’ to do.”

To your surprise, when Arthur jumps off of Boadicea, he offers a hand to you, helping you off of his horse and leading you up to the doors much like a gentleman would. Your arms are crossed together, and Arthur makes sure to keep pace with you, despite your slightly jittery steps.

“I got a bad feelin’ about this, Arthur,” you murmur, and Arthur goes to open the door to let you both in.

“Well, just try and not let it get the best of you and stay alert. Bad feelin’ or not, not payin’ attention can get ya killed.”

You let out an uneasy breath as you come inside, “What do we do now?”

Your voice echoes in the large foyer and your eyes nearly bulge out of your head as you take in the curved, twin staircases mirroring each other as they lead to the upstairs. On the wall in between them is a large family portrait, and you recognize the Whittmores.

Claudius is to the left, looking as stern and regal as ever— you can tell it was when he was younger, when the gray hadn’t overtaken his blonde hair yet. His wife, Bernadette, is at his shoulder, her sandy hair tousled up to show off the fancy neckline of her dress, and the fine jewelry lining it.

And between them is their daughter, raven-haired and rosy-cheeked. Emily is much younger in the painting, more than likely around the age of six or seven, and you recognize her from the time you met her when you visited this plantation for what felt like lifetimes ago.

“We find out about Emily...” Arthur says from beside you, and his eyes are staring hard at the portrait in front of you both.

Arthur sets off then, heading towards the stairs. You go to follow him, not even sure of where to start in this massive house.

Lifting the skirt of your dress to take on the steps, you ask Arthur, “You think she died?”

“I don’t know what to think right now,” Arthur admits, gesturing out to the house, “But we got plenty of ground to cover.”

“We better try and be as quick as possible... I don’t think those guards were entirely sold on us.”

The outlaw snorts at your words, reaching the top of the steps, “Sold or not, they still let us in. We gotta make sure we take advantage of that.”

Arthur rounds the corner, coming to a few rooms and pushing open the door. They don’t seem to be lived in, having the only furniture, but no items to be seen. You take a few across from him as well, but you find only the same barren rooms as he does.

“End of the hall— there are only two doors. I take one, you take the other?”

You nod, stepping ahead and taking the one at the end of the hall while Arthur enters the other room behind you.

Upon entering, you find a large bed, made up and put together. It’s framed by two nightstands, both opulent in construction, and covered with a few items ranging from small pictures to what looks like a jewelry box. At the back wall, there is another portrait hanging above the bed, this time of just Claudius and Bernadette, holding hands and looking intimidating from their post.

Sunlight filters in like the fresh breeze from the balcony, catching the folds of the sheer curtains and rolling them like gentle waves.

You step forward, going over to the bed, and more importantly the jewelry box. Your eyes are transfixed upon it, and you pull the first drawer open to see what’s inside.

Among the velvet interior of the box lies countless rings and other precious jewelry, something you’ve never really got to see in your life. You almost grab onto a few, enjoying their sparkle as the light catches on the metals and the jewels alike.

But one, in particular, catches your eye.

“Ms. Broce?” Arthur calls from the other room.

You lift the ring that has caught your complete and utter attention, transfixed upon the ring in question. Its ruby set into the silver metal almost has you bringing your hand up, and you don’t want to admit that you’re curious to see just how well it’d look on you. You shut the drawer, uncaring for the rest of the jewelry inside.

There’s just something about this ring... Something...

“Put that damn ring down!”

You jump, and you turn abruptly, the ring pinched between your fingers as you come face to face with a woman brandishing a sword.

You’re at a loss for words, your eyes catching on the glint of the sword as Arthur rushes into the room, gun at the ready.

“I think you’ll find a bullet is faster than your swing,” Arthur warns, and he aims his revolver at the girl who glares at you, “I suggest steppin’ back and thinkin’ better of what you’re doin’.”

“Not until she puts that damn ring down!” she snaps, pieces of her unkempt hair almost getting caught in her mouth as she raises the sword, making it level to your throat, “I’ll die before I ever see it be stolen!”

“Stolen—. . . I— 'm not stealing it—”

“Liar!” she goes to take a step forward, and Arthur clicks his gun ominously.

“I will put lead in your quicker than you get even get a cut on her skin,” he growls.

You blink, your heart racing as the woman seethes before you.

She looks as wild as she feels, covered in mud and dressed in what looks like rags. Her skin is dirtied and scuffed and covered with a fine sheen of sweat. Her hazel eyes are fiery as they glare at you, alight with both fury and . . . and . . .

Tears.

Your lips part then, and you look between the ring and the girl before you, putting the pieces together as recognition falls upon you. Arthur squints your way, looking completely lost as he still aims at the girl, even as you take a step towards her.

“What are you doin’!?” he shouts.

“Doin’ what’s right, Arthur.”

The girl watches you, her sword slowly lowering as you near.

Bringing your hand up, you pinch the ring between your fingers in offering. Cautiously, she raises her own, her gritty and scuffed palm outstretching to where you place the ring onto it, wrapping her fingers around it.

A few tears work their way down her cheeks, and she looks back to you, her teary eyes wide with something skin to gratefulness.

Arthur stomps his way over, hissing, “You just gave that ring away to a stranger!”

“No, I didn’t,” you murmur, offering a somber smile to the woman before you that you haven’t seen in years, “Arthur, say hello to Emily Whittmore.”

Arthur’s eyes comically widen, and he takes a step back as Emily wipes at her face.

“You’re—”

“Yes... I’m Emily, as much as it pains me to say,” she breathes, and she looks at the ring you gave her, holding back a small sob.

“How are you alive?” Arthur hisses under his breath, “We thought you were dead!”

Emily laughs bitterly, shaking her head, “I might as well be, after what they did to me... The whole world has gone to treat me like I don’t exist.”

“I knew somethin’ was off when I read your father’s obituary... You weren’t mentioned in it,” you explain, “I’m not sure if you remember me, but—”

“Little Wolf, that’s what your dad called you when you came up here years ago...” she whispers, and your chest tightens, “I do remember you. Your friend here callin’ your name, it reminded me... Your father helped save our crops that year.”

“We played here in the house while he worked— you, me, and Nicholas.”

At the mention of the boy, Emily’s expression darkens further, “Yes... I remember...”

The outlaw at your side huffs a breath out then, putting his hands on his hips and looking mighty confused, “I hate to cut the memory sharin’ short, but how did you get in here? This is all guarded.”

“Yes it is, and not very well,” Emily explains, “I grew up here my whole life. I know exactly where to sneak out and _in_ from.”

You tilt your head at her, “How long have you been here?”

“Not long... I— I had to get back eventually... They took me away, a few days after my father died. Dragged me to Strawberry first, and then Valentine. They intended to get me all the way to Annesburg to work and die in the mines, but I managed to escape and get back here... I— I just needed to get my father’s sword—”

“And your mother’s ring,” you finish.

“It’s all I have l-left,” her voice wobbles, and she ducks her head to hide her tears, “They took everythin’ else from me...”

Arthur shakes his head, “But how? Your Claudius’ daughter— by blood, this is all yours.”

Emily laughs, bitter and rancid then. She shakes her head, bottom lip trembling as she grips onto her parents’ heirlooms tightly.

“Blood means nothin’, not for me, anyway... They made sure of that and had me made illegitimate.”

Sharing a quick look with Arthur, you ask, “And how did they manage that?”

“It’s— It’s a long, complicated story... I—” Emily breathes, and she goes to sit down on her father’s bed, setting the ring and sword beside her, “I always thought I was a Whittmore. Born and raised, loved and cherished. Claudius and Bernadette never treated me like anythin’ but... But I guess, a part of me always knew... The black sheep,” she grips a strand of her hair, sniffling, “I always wondered why my hair was black, and theirs wasn’t...”

Your gaze softens on Emily then, and you come to her side, wrapping an arm around her shoulder as Arthur stays, watching you two.

“I found out when I got engaged to Nicholas... My mother was already dead for some years, and so it was just my father that I expected to surprise... He loved Nicholas, and he raised him after his father Eli was murdered when he was just a young boy... I was born a few months after they took him on, and we grew up together... We ended up fallin’ in love, and when Nicholas proposed to me, there was no other word I could say then yes...”

You nod, remembering the gossip that flooded the town.

Emily Whittmore was engaged, a silver, ruby ring on her finger and a jump in her step...

How could you have ever forgotten?

“When I told him, he— he looked so disgusted... I had no idea as to why... And I begged him, begged him to give us his blessin’ since our wedding was only a few days away, and—and he told me...”

Emily grabs the ring from beside her, twiddling it half-heartedly in her fingers as she goes on.

“Nicholas’ father, Eli, had been a helping hand on the plantation. My family had known his for some years, and Eli was apparently takin’ advantage of that fact... He was not a good man, especially when the drink got ahold of him, as it often did... And one night, after a few bottles of whiskey, he attacked my mother...”

Fresh tears fall onto the torn-up pants leg of Emily’s clothes, and her voice strains as she goes on.

“H-He got her so bad that they had to call the doctor in Blackwater to patch her up... She was bruised and beaten. They were surprised she survived...” Emily sucks in a violent breath, “My father was so enraged that he didn’t go to the police, he just hunted down Eli himself, and he killed him.”

"My father... He told me about Eli... They hunted the murderer for months...”

“Eli was never good at makin’ friends, but he was damn good at makin’ enemies,” Emily hisses, and she wipes at her eyes furiously, “Guess that was a good thing... That, and no one expected my father to be capable of such a thing, not when he took in Eli’s boy after he came up dead...”

Arthur curses under his breath.

“A few months passed, and much to my mother’s dismay, she found out she was pregnant... She hadn’t even finished healin’ since Eli attacked her, and it tore her to shreds, thinkin’ Claudius would leave her for it, but he didn’t... Even when he knew— he knew I wasn’t—. . ."

“She—” realization dawns upon you, and the shock it brings is just as encompassing, “She got pregnant... Because of Eli.”

“I’m not Claudius' daughter— not by blood,” Emily weeps, “I’m a Bourbaki! Just like Nicholas!”

You look to Arthur who’s rubbing a hand down his face, looking as pressed as ever. You pull Emily closer, feeling awful as she sobs onto your shoulder.

“So they proved that,” Arthur growls, looking livid, “How?”

“I don’t know,” Emily hiccups, “My father didn’t tell anyone... The only ones who knew outside of our family was the doctor in Blackwater... The name was—”

“Cole,” you blurt, “Do you know Francis?”

Emily pushes away, nodding, “Y-Yes... But it was his father, he’s the one who helped my mother... Sigmund was his name... My father trusted him with his life. But Francis... My father hated him. Makes me wonder why he bothered to call him to our house in the first place...”

Your blood runs cold.

“Francis was here?”

“Yes— maybe around a week before my father died... He called upon him, insistent... He was rather sick, but Francis was in and out in minutes. I don’t think my father told him anything...”

“Did he give your father anythin’?”

Emily nods, standing and going over to the other nightstand. She pulls open the drawer, removing a familiar, dark blue bottle.

“Just this... It was medicine, he said. But it didn’t help any. My father died a few days after...”

Your chest constricts, knowing the feeling.

“This— this changes a lot of things,” Arthur murmurs, rubbing a few fingers along the edge of his jaw.

Suddenly, Emily stands up straight, looking at both you and Arthur wearily, “You can’t tell anyone that you saw me here... You can't... There are— there are people out to get me, who exactly, I don’t know, but they want me dead.”

You look to Arthur then, and you both immediately seem to reach the same conclusion.

“We won’t,” Arthur says, sounding genuine.

“Good... I just came here to grab my father’s sword from his days in the union and my mother’s ring, and then I’m as good as a ghost,” Emily pauses then, looking at the two of you, “I— I don’t know why you are here, or what you are doin’, but... Please, be careful. There’s so much goin’ on here, so much that I don’t know and I can’t warn you about.”

“You too, Emily,” you say solemnly.

She heads over to the balcony, pocketing the ring and putting the sword back into the holster at her side before she stops. She stands between the curtains as they blow past her, waving in the wind as she ducks her head lightly.

“If you guys need to get out of here, there’s a bit of the fence that’s broken by the southeast end. There are a few dead trees there if you need to find your way... No one likes to patrol the outside section there because of the ground. It’s slippery with oil.”

You nod to her, making note of that, “Thank you.”

She nods back to you both, “Good luck, and— and thank you, Wolf, for the ring.”

Arthur bids her goodbye, and you both watch after her as she escapes from the balcony, disappearing like the specter she called herself to be.

You heave a breath, almost putting your face into your hands as Arthur begins to pace.

“This has gotten all shades of twisted,” he remarks with a hiss, “Figures Hosea and I take this on thinkin’ it's gonna be an easy score, and it’s anything but...”

“Well someone’s pullin’ strings in the back like us,” you concede, standing then, “We gotta be careful... We don’t know who we’re comin’ up against.”

“Think it’s too late to call it off?” Arthur jokes.

Before you can respond though, you hear the front door open, and the sounds from the guards at the gate begin to fill the foyer. Arthur comes closer to you as their words filter in, and your stomach sinks lower and lower with each one.

“—I doubt they’re even married," you hear the one say, and Arthur hunkers down near you on the bed then, “Did you see the look on her face? She looked like she didn’t even want to be here.”

You curse, “Told you I’d flub it...”

Arthur shushes you, and you hear the guards ascend the stairs.

“Bet they’re just going through these rooms lookin’ for stuff to steal... I have a feelin’ we should’ve just turned ‘em away at the gate.”

“Arthur, what do we do—”

Arthur holds up a hand, but he looks just as concerned as you are as the guards near.

“You take the room at the end of the hall.”

“Jesus, Arthur, they're—”

Before you can say another word, Arthur’s hands cup your face, and suddenly, your lips are meeting his.

You make a muffled noise of surprise, your eyes as wide as they will ever be before you find yourself melting into the touch. His chapped lips move softly against yours, and his hand slinks to the back of your neck to pull you closer, while the other unbuttons the first few parts of your dress along the neckline. Your eyelids flutter shut, and you relax just as the guard enters the room.

“Oh— I’m—”

Arthur pulls away just as quickly as he had come onto you, and you’re left blinking and playing catch up. The outlaw moves his body in front of you some, breaking the gaze of the flushing guard who has thought he caught you two in a delicate moment.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Callahan,” he sputters, turning his head away as the other guard leers from behind him, “And Mrs. Callahan! Excuse us!”

He grabs ahold of the door handle and about slams it shut, leaving you and Arthur alone in the room.

You’re still reeling as Arthur stands, acting as though nothing happened as he looks to you.

“Come on, we gotta get a move on, sweetheart.”

You’re confused at the nickname until you realize that you can still hear the guards outside, sputtering and cursing all the like.

Fixing your collar, you push past Arthur, gaze filled with ire.

“We’re gonna talk about that later,” you grit out to him under a breath.

You push the door open, refusing to meet the eyes of the guards as you walk past them. Arthur follows behind you, offering apologies and accepting other from the guards as they escort you out of the house.

But, you’d take awkward over being at gunpoint any day.

You get outside to where Boadicea waits, and Arthur makes sure that you’re saddled up before he joins you on top of her, looking to the guards.

“We’ll be in touch with the bank,” he tells them, “Thank you for letting us take a look around.”

“It’s no problem at all, Mr. Callahan! Again, our sincerest apologies for intruding on you and your wife!”

Arthur waves them off, “No need... Now, we’ll be on our way, if that’s alright.”

“Of course! Let me get the gate for you!”

The guard does as he promised, moving and pulling the gate back for Boadicea to clear through easily. Arthur nods to him, and he sets off, heading down the road and leaving Havenwood Plantation behind.

Your stomach rolls on itself as Arthur guides Boadicea farther away, and you hate the suffocating feeling between the two of you. You’re a bit furious over the kiss, because, of all things, the last thing you wanted was to be put on display in such a way.

But, you know enough that it did save your asses, even though it stuck them out, for damn sure.

Thankfully then, Arthur is able to guide Boadicea into the woods, and you can’t be any more grateful than you are when you come upon D’or munching happily on grass. You don’t even wait for Boadicea to come to a complete stop before you’re hopping down, rushing over to your golden beauty.

“Unhitch her, and come on,” Arthur instructs, but you have different plans.

“No, hold on. I’m gettin' out of this damned dress,” you hiss, and you go into your saddlebag to grab out the outfit you’d been wearing earlier.

Arthur’s eyes go wide, and he looks as though you’ve grown a second head.

“You’re changin’ out here in the woods, woman?”

“Well this sure as hell ain’t a hotel, and I ain’t ridin’ back hangin’ onto you like a monkey! ‘Sides, I can’t take this damn thing no more!”

You rip at the neckline, causing the lace to rip and to pop a few buttons out of place, feeling relief at the way you feel like you can breathe now.

Arthur averts his eyes, turning with Boadicea, “Jesus, woman!”

“You undid these just a few minutes ago, and _now_ you try and act proper!” you taunt, “But you best keep lookin’ away! I catch you snoopin’ and I’ll do you worse than I did this neckline!”

Arthur huffs, and he moves Boadicea forward, “I’ll be at the main road... Just— hurry up and change, you madwoman.”

You huff, but make quick work of the dress. You practically peel the rest from you, feeling freedom with each inch of exposed skin it leaves behind. When you finally get it off entirely, you feel more like yourself than you have all day, even as you put on the get-up Hosea bought for you in Blackwater.

As it turns out, you’re pretty sure you cannot stand dresses no longer.

You don’t even bother to salvage the damn thing, leaving it on the dirt and stomping on it once for good measure before ripping the lace tie-up out of your hair. The strands fall and curl about your shoulders, and you feel giddy as you toss the length of fabric to rot with the rest.

Mounting D’or, you smile and put your hat atop your head, spurring D’or forward once her reign was freed from the tree.

You come upon Arthur moments later, nursing a cigarette as you stop right beside him.

“You ready?”

“As I’ll ever be,” you say, and you flick D’or’s reigns.

The two of you ride back to Strawberry, not sharing a word the entire way back. You’re a bit thankful for it, not wanting to dwell on what happened just yet.

By the time you come into Strawberry, the sun is setting, and you yawn as you both hitch Boadicea and D’or to the hotel’s post. Thankfully, Hosea and Garrett are just inside, and Garrett has his bags pack and at his sides as he talks to Hosea.

The two men perk at your approach, and Garrett rushes to meet you.

“Did you two find anything?”

Before you can say anything, Arthur speaks for you both.

“Nothin’ of importance.”

When Garrett looks to you, you nod in agreement, remembering Emily’s words, “She existed, but... she might as well be a ghost at this point.”

Garrett looks a little crestfallen then, and he scowls lightly, “A shame... But, I suppose it’s good to know that I won’t be expecting problems from her any time soon... Now, while I’d love to chat more, I have a train to catch.”

He bids you both goodbye before hurrying away and heading towards the station, leaving you and Arthur to meet back up with Hosea.

The old man is sitting on one of the plush couches of the lobby, sipping on some coffee and having a bowl of stew as you both approach.

“Ms. Broce! Arthur!” he beams at you both, “How’d it go?”

“Not so good,” Arthur says, sitting in a chair between Hosea and the couch that you settle down on across from him, “Ms. Broce was tellin’ the truth... Emily does exist.”

“And?”

“Hosea, this is— there’s somethin’ goin’ on here, somethin’ we _all_ shouldn't be involved with,” Hosea sets his coffee cup down, looking more and more stricken at each word, “I feel like we should just take that money we got so far and say to hell with Garrett Matthews and this whole damned thing.”

Hosea is quiet, leaning in and frowning deeply, “Arthur, are you— are we in danger?”

“Emily’s illegitimate, Hosea. Someone found out and they made sure to prove it, one way or another. If they can take a family secret and make it fact, then lord knows what they can do to folk like us,” he shakes his head, running a hand through his hair and completely destroying the style.

“What about Emily? Apart from her lineage, what else did they do to her?”

“She was practically wild when we found her... She broke in, trying to steal back her father’s sword and her mother’s ring. She’s been on the run for at least a week or so, it looked like. Said she escaped from men in Valentine, they intended to take her to Annesburg to work her to death in the mines. She made us promise not to tell anyone we didn’t know that she was alive, otherwise they’ll come to kill her.”

Cursing, the old man shakes his head, “This doesn’t bode well at all."

“Which is all the more reason we drop this and leave it before we get in too deep,” Arthur insists.

“I believe you have a fair point,” Hosea rubs at his chin before looking to you, “What do you think, Ms. Broce?”

Both of their eyes turn to you, and you nod once.

“I think Arthur is right.”

Hosea takes your word into consideration and then stands.

“Suppose it’s settled then... We’re to head back to camp.”

You and Arthur join Hosea, falling behind him as the man takes the lead.

“And what about Mr. Matthews?” Arthur asks, “What are you going to tell him?”

“Nothin’, that’s what," Hosea goes to Quicksilver, clambering onto his saddle then, “He knows we’re on the other side of the law. It would be no surprise for us to simply disappear if they came sniffin’.”

“You don’t think he’d send anyone after us for the money, either?”

Hosea laughs, “It’ll teach him not to invest in outlaws.”

Arthur shrugs in agreement, and he mounts Boadicea without much fuss.

You hand back some, not entirely sold on the notion as you go to D’or. But you hold your tongue, knowing it’ll be no use to argue any further as you all head out of town together.

“So, now that we decided to scrap this,” the outlaw says from the other side of Hosea, “what are we doin’ now?”

“Somethin’ else, I suppose. I don’t exactly fancy this ferry robbery like Dutch n’ Micah,” Hosea admits.

Snorting, Arthur nods, “Me either...”

“Guess we’ll find somethin’ to buy ourselves within the next upcomin’ days. I figure errands, mostly, but it’s better than nothin’,” looking to you, the older man asks, “What about you, Ms. Broce? I figure this wasn’t exactly how you planned your first venture goin’, but I doubt you’ll be wantin’ to go back to washin’ clothes so soon either.”

Smirking, you huff a small laugh, “I will admit, I have enjoyed bein’ spared from Ms. Grimshaw... But, I’ll have to see... I figure as soon as I get back, I won’t have much of a choice... This was actually the first time I’ve been out of camp since Arthur brought me. But I’d like to try somethin’ else if that’s okay.”

At that, Hosea offers you a warm look of encouragement, “Well, we can do our best to get you out more, Ms. Broce. I’m certainly fine with it, it’s just dependin’ on if Arthur here won’t birth a sow over it.”

“Hey now,” it’s a defensive murmur that the outlaw garners, “I’m just lookin’ out for her, is all...”

“Well, there were better ways you could’ve gone about it,” you say curtly.

Hosea mutters something under his breath, sending a quick look to the sky in silent prayer before Arthur sets in.

He snorts, looking ahead with his face drawn up and his voice sour, “There were a lotta better ways we could’ve gone about this, especially when it came to you. I think it’d be better if you didn’t partake until you know better.”

Hosea whistles lowly, and you bristle as Arthur smirks at the noise.

“Oh, that’s rich, comin’ from the kettle! You ‘bout ripped my head off durin’ this trip!”

With an incredulous look, Arthur glares at you from across the way, “You about lost it! Twice, no less! Ain’t had nothin’ to do with me! I just had to swoop in and get ya when you’re completely lost as to what to do!”

Angrily, you about blow steam through your nose when you breathe.

“It was _your_ idea to split up both times that you seemed to swoop in on!” you hiss in accusation, “But I shouldn’t be surprised, a hollow skull like yours is never good at retainin’ what counts.”

Hosea hides a laugh then, and Arthur is the one to have his frustration flicker over his face.

Growling, he looks ahead to the road, “Women...”

“I could say the same about men,” tutting, you huff yourself, and you also turn away, glaring before you.

“You don’t know a damn thing about—”

“Like you do either—”

“Oh, and I’m supposed to—”

“You’re a damn—”

“Alright, now that’s enough,” Hosea’s voice is stern, making both you and Arthur scowl, hanging your heads like scolded children, “I’m not spendin’ another ride with you two bickerin’ back n’ forth. I’ve tolerated it more than I should’ve on this trip, and I can say I’m a bit glad it’s endin’ sooner than expected because I wouldn’t have been able to handle much more of this.”

“Sorry, Hosea...” you both mutter.

“Good. From this point on, you either talk amicably or not at all. Can’t tell if this ringin’ in my ears is from age or you two screamin’ back n’ forth...”

You swallow thickly, holding onto D’or’s reigns between your fingers, rubbing the worn leather between their tips.

Together, you ride in silence back to camp, getting there right about nightfall. You can hear everyone in camp, all lively and cheerful, a stark contrast to what overhangs you three as you come up upon the hitching posts and the other horses. You hesitate, staying behind alongside Arthur as Hosea pushes past you both.

The older man says nothing to you or Arthur as he hitches and dismounts Quicksilver, but he does shake his head in disappointment as he looks in your direction. It feels like a rock settles about your ribs, and you end up biting your lip and looking away in shame as he departs.

It leaves the two of you alone, and you both remain on your horses, side by side for a few moments.

The crickets chirp and the cicadas sing, matching with the rustling of the leaves above. Moonlight filters below, offering tinges of blue light in the dark surrounding you both. Below you, D’or knocks her head back and forth, feeling just as antsy as you are.

And much to your surprise, it is Arthur that speaks first.

“I—” he starts, his low baritone almost deafening between you two, “You care to ride with me?”

The request has you eyeing the outlaw suspiciously, and you find him rubbing at the back of his neck, as awkward as he is sheepish.

“Why on earth do you want me to do that?”

“Just—” he stops himself, catching his frustration before he deflates entirely, taking a deep breath and quietly saying, “Please...”

He seems tired, defeated. About what, you’re not sure, but something in you feels just as worn as he is. You can’t quite put your finger on what’s fractured inside you either, but it’s there— aching and pulling at you like barbed hooks.

Taking a glance back at camp, seeing the fractured flames of the fire and the bodies surrounding it, you feel no urge to join them just yet. Not with the way you feel right now.

“Okay...”

Gently, Arthur reigns Boadicea back towards the main road, and you match up to him. Unexpectedly, he doesn’t bring the mare to a gallop, or even a trot. Instead, he keeps her at a steady gate, soft and even as you head out.

Away from the safety of the trees, the wind picks at your hair, blowing your locks around and brushing against your skin. Your wide eyes take in the grasslands before you, turned navy from the moon hanging above you both.

It isn’t until you’re a bit away, with no other signs of life in sight apart from the few creatures that scurry away upon your arrival, that Arthur stops.

You’re already questioning what is happening, watching as Arthur jumps down from his perch on Boadicea’s saddle, and faces towards a sole, dead tree that stands among the tall, swaying blades of grass.

Without a word, you do the same, joining him and looking towards where the aged trunk emerges from the land, cracked and degrading from lack of life. Its barren branches reach up like skeletal fingers towards the night sky, blocking out a few flickering stars from where it looks like it tries to grab onto the moon hanging between them.

“Get your cattleman.”

Blinking, you go down to your holster, grabbing the gun and holding it down by your leg once it’s free. It feels as though it were an anchor against your fingers at that moment.

“Aim at the tree.”

Breathing rough, you turn your head to the outlaw, “Arthur—”

“ _Aim at the tree,_ ” he insists, not even looking your way.

Your lips part, a shaky and unsteady breath passing through them as you look back to the dead tree in front of you.

Lifting your arm, you raise your revolver, leveling it with the tree and noticing it shake some from your nerves. Your palm sweats against the handle, and you flex your fingers, trying to get a better grip.

“Fire.”

You pull the trigger, and the gun sparks to life violently.

The shattering sound of the bullet firing out of the chamber rattles you, and you feel it down to your bones as the recoil convulses through your arm in tandem. Just as abruptly, the bullet pierces the wood of the tree some feet in front of you, splintering it and fracturing the bark about the trunk without mercy.

The shot rings out, fading into the air like the puff of smoke and the smell of gunpowder as you lower your gun, your hand almost trembling at your side.

Beside you, Arthur’s eyes trained on where the bullet has ripped apart the wood, splitting it to reveal the rotten core underneath. They’re narrowed, just like his lips with the grimace that plagues them.

“You ever fire a gun at somethin’ other than an animal before?”

The question has your mouth running dry, and you glance down to the gun that rests by your leg, the glint of the metal keen in the moonlight.

“N-No.”

Things quiet again, and you bite your lip, waiting for Arthur to speak again.

But he doesn’t. Not yet.

Instead, he walks up to the tree, kneeling down and going to inspect the wood, calling out to you.

“Would you have fired, if this were a person?”

Feeling your heart sink at that, you are quick to say, “Of course not! That’s—”

You stop cold as Arthur digs out something from the wood, standing back up and walking back over to you. As he approaches, you feel your throat tighten, especially when he stops right in front of you, your hand balled loosely into a fist.

He holds it up, palm facing downwards, and he looks to you, jerking his head and wordlessly getting his request across.

Raising up your hand, you offer it to him, watching apprehensively as he opens his own. You flinch lightly, feeling something heavy and hot fall into your palm, and your eyes sting as you take in the sight of the bullet— now crumpled and deformed.

“If you can’t shoot someone, then you can’t do this,” he says, getting a bit of an edge to his voice that grows with each word, and you slightly shrink under him as he leans forward with each syllable, “You think I’m bein’ cruel, but that’s the truth of it. Because you don’t get a damn choice, sometimes. You don’t get a damn tree to fire on. This life— you will do things you don’t want to do. That you never thought you could do. And if you aren’t able to put that aside, then you are better off stayin’ in camp with the others. Because someone will make that choice for you, and _you’ll_ be what I’m pullin’ bullets out of.”

Arthur’s words are piercing and callous, and you stare at him with wide eyes as he backs off some, looking just as upset as he was earlier. It makes something ignite back within you, and you grip onto the bullet tightly before tossing it to the ground in fury.

“You think you’re protectin’ me— that you’re savin’ me from myself like this is a damn warning or lesson,” you hiss, pointing a finger at Arthur until you jab him harshly in the chest, and he takes a step back, looking about deadly than at the action, “But you don’t get it, do you? You think you’re doin’ me favors by keepin’ me from this, by actin’ like I’m too afraid or too stupid to do what needs to be done, but all you’re doin’ is suffocatin’ me, Arthur! Don’t you realize? Don’t you see it’s too late for you to try and keep me outta this?”

His voice is as gritty as it is deep, “It ain’t too late to tell you that you’re bein’ a damn fool— one that’s gonna get themselves killed!”

“I am a fool!” you yell, “I ain’t ever been nothin’ but a damn fool, even before the moment you came my way! I was a fool when I took that debt, Arthur! I already got myself into this!” you step forward, meeting the outlaw head on, “You can’t save me when I was damned before we even met!”

He glares, green eyes alight with frustration, “You act like runnin’ with us and doin’ this is the same thing—”

“Because it is! There is no choice with it, Arthur! When I run with you, things are in jeopardy just as much as when I’m doin’ these things with you! It may not look like it outright, but I am! Because in case you’ve forgotten, you’re wanted men! We can be ambushed, cornered, caught— whatever you wanted to damn well call it, and you know what? I will be in just as much danger then as I am, but I won’t know a damned thing when it comes to savin’ myself! I’ll be good as dead!”

You break then, turning away some and fighting away the hot tears that threaten to fall. Arthur stands beside you, silent. Patient.

“I’m tired of bein’ saved, Arthur. I’m tired of feelin’ like I need to be, too,” your voice shakes, much like your grip on the cattleman at your side, “If I don’t learn now, when I _do_ have a choice, I can’t protect myself when it matters most...”

The outlaw curses, stepping away and rubbing at his chin, facing away from you. He hangs his head, the glare of the moonlight catching on the rim of his hat and the stern slopes of his shoulders as he tenses.

You give him a moment, recouping yourself and getting your emotions back under wraps. You quell the urge for tears and take a deep breath, looking back to the damaged trunk of the tree, your skin feeling too tight.

After a few more minutes, Arthur looks over his shoulder, and you solemnly look to him.

“So what are you sayin’ I do about that?”

Glancing down at your revolver, you press your lips together as you make up your mind.

Then, quietly, you step forward, your boots crumping the grass below under your heel as you approach. Arthur turns more towards you, green eyes squinted and regarding the gun in your hands. The outlaw stays stock still, letting you close the distance until you’re only a foot apart, and a moment passes in which all you do is look at one another and breath.

Without a word, you bring the cattleman up, aiming it at Arthur.

The outlaw sucks in a sharp breath, tensing some until you rotate it around in your fingers, hand gripping onto the bottle as you offer the handle to him to take.

“I want you to teach me.”

Various emotions flicker and cross over Arthur’s face at your request, and you can see the mental debate warring within him as you watch on expectantly.

You know how he feels— what he thinks.

He’s only been trying to spare you, to keep you from the harsh reality that was the working hand of the Van Der Linde gang. This is all it’s ever been about.

All Arthur has ever done so far is protect you. He saved you from the wrath of Strauss, from the threats of the man at that bar, from Emily before she knew of your intentions. You easily could’ve been killed or worse a few times over by now, had Arthur not stepped in. Had Arthur not made that choice for you.

There’s a part of you that knows this man wouldn’t hesitate to kill for you. You’re sure that, if things had gone down just a little differently, he already would’ve, that realization not coming lightly. And it’s something you’re coming to terms with, like most other things.

Because like finding yourself in this life, running with the Van Der Linde gang, coming to know Arthur and the others— you’ve found a part of yourself beginning to care. Beginning to feel in kind. Beginning to feel connections that pull under your skin like the moon to the waves, intertwined and dependent.

It’s like a fissure is splitting you down the middle— the woman you once were, and the one you’re quickly becoming. The one who’s asking to learn the life of an outlaw, the one who intends to live such a thing. You can tell that you’re already falling into place, in this new little role you have for yourself.

You’re no longer a hunter’s daughter. You’re no longer a pity case.

You’re a woman running with a gang, no matter how you gussy it up.

No matter how much Arthur wants to hide you away, to keep you tucked up like a precious teacup that is too fragile for anything but the delicacies of their lifestyle.

But you know better. And, with the way Arthur’s shoulders fall, you know he does too.

You still hold out the revolver, waiting as the outlaw considers your words, considers all that you’re asking of him before he comes upon a conclusion.

A breath stalls in your lungs, your heart stuttering as Arthur’s hand comes up slowly. His eyes reach yours, holding your gaze steadily, time feeling as though it were almost frozen.

But you know— you know the moment Arthur’s calloused fingers wrap around the handle of the gun.

His voice is quiet, almost betraying the nerves he has about this whole thing. You can tell there’s something else— something he’s not wanting to share. But his eyes say more than he ever will, twinging with something vulnerable and shaken.

But despite all of that, and all of his earlier hesitancy, he takes the gun from you, and nods.

“Alright,” he breathes out, taking a step back, “We’ll start now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (If you wish to get updates or see anything relative to this fic on my tumblr, I have a specific tag for this story now! It's just under "amidst a clash of worlds," and I'll put any asks or general posts for the story under there for you to see! This includes for when I update!)
> 
> Prompt me here at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/promptask
> 
> Ask me or send me messages here at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask


	4. Blackwater IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t think any less of yourself, and sure as hell don’t believe I think any less of you. As long as you ain’t bitten by a snake and I ain’t gotta suck the venom, I don’t much care ‘bout it. If anythin’, it is just a lesson.”
> 
> Bitterly, you ask, “And that is?”
> 
> “That you’re always a second away from bein’ killed if you’re not careful. That fragile second, where you think the next moment is the last one. And while it won’t always be a wolf, that fear never changes,” Arthur leans back, looking towards the night sky, “I can tell you that from experience... It’s somethin’ you will always feel, even for others.”
> 
> “Do you feel that with me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You. Better. Prepare. Yourselves.
> 
> This is it. The end of our beloved prologue. Ah, I'm gonna miss the simplicity of these times, lemme tell ya.
> 
> I drank an entire bottle of mead and had some sangria to work on this chapter so let’s get to it!
> 
> Here are the notes for this update:  
> \- warning: violence and some graphic shit be depicted in this one, lads  
> \- warning: minor/canon character death (whoops)  
> \- warning: a certain bell appears (sorry)  
> \- warning: a certain animal dies (really sorry)  
> \- warning: be prepared
> 
> I don't want to spoil much, but you're in for a hell of a read, I think!
> 
> Enjoy!~

A bottle rests on a fence post, its green glass sparkling in the sunlight.

It’s empty, leaned at an angle against the weathered wood it’s perched upon. A fly, curious and wanting for what liquid was once inside lands on it, crawling about and resting. That is, until it takes off suddenly, spooked.

The bottle shatters, cracking apart into a flurry of shards as a bullet passes through it, aimed from your smoking gun. 

You stare down the barrel at where the bottle once stood, slowly lowering your repeater down from where it was perched near the ball of your shoulder, and you finally take a breath.

“Always shoot when you exhale— never hold it in. You’ll be too tense, and the recoil will get ya. Last thing you want is a bad shoulder or you missin’ because you muck up the shot.”

You snort, popping a new bullet into the cartridge as Arthur stands off to the side, leaning against a tree and nursing a cigarette from where he spectates in the shade.

You raise your repeater up again, aiming at the brown bottle a few feet from where the green one was once placed, and you aim at your target.

And as your breath leaves your lungs, you pull the trigger.

The bottle shatters instantly, once again raining down thousands of shards of glass.

Arthur hums, taking a pull from his cigarette before blowing smoke. His eyes are narrowed at where he had set up your makeshift practice range, taking stock of your performance as Boadicea and D’or graze a few feet away.

It has been like this for the past few days— you and Arthur.

After your discussion that night, Arthur took your request to learn the ways of an outlaw — or how to survive while running with them — seriously.

You had ridden back together to camp, tense and wordless, but there was an understanding between the two of you. Were your issues resolved? No. Not in the slightest. But you had met in the middle in some way. Not a compromise, but something of understanding one another. It was enough to keep you from getting at each other’s throats as you were, but it didn’t mean you had forgotten what Arthur had said.

He viewed you as incapable. Not unwilling, but a naive woman who sought to see herself in shoes that he supposedly knew wouldn’t fit. It didn’t mean he didn’t have confidence in you otherwise, you knew that. But he made it clear that you were no outlaw.

And maybe you weren’t. It was clear you hadn’t been raised as he had, under the gentle guidance of Hosea, and under the scrutiny of Dutch. You didn’t have more than twenty years of experience that cultivated Arthur into the terrifying and lethal gunslinger he has been, the one you’ve come to know since he rode up to collect from you that fateful day.

Maybe you weren’t like Arthur, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t— or shouldn’t — learn.

And so, when your first lesson came that next morning, a simple test to see where your skills lie and what you needed to do, you met every bit of Arthur’s bite back with just as much ferociousness. You wanted to learn, you wanted to be able to match Arthur in a way that wouldn’t have the man doubting you, or wanting to push you aside.

After all, your father didn’t want you to learn how to hunt at first when you were just a little girl. But you proved him wrong when you came home with two squirrels you had caught all on your own.

Arthur may doubt you, may think that you are nothing more than a homebody who wants to etch a better life for themselves with the one they found themselves in, but you are determined with just as much ire to show him just how wrong he is too.

And so, ever since your first lesson, he’s taken you out to shoot, teaching you the basics to quick drawing, and handling a gun how you would during a shootout. The outlaw has also given tips and tricks to handle D’or, showing you with Boadicea things that he has taught her when it came to movements, and even keeping her calm during the tensest of situations. And much like you, D’or has a lot to learn.

When you’re not practicing with Arthur, you’re training. Thankfully, Ms. Grimshaw has left you be, and while you do help out with various other chores, from chopping firewood to helping move Pearson’s provisions, you are left alone to hone your skills. You take D’or out, practicing skid turns and tampering out her piaffe when you’re not attempting anything with your revolver or repeater. You even learn from Charles on how to clean and maintain your guns better, after all of their current use.

But for all your practice and progress, one thing is clear.

Everything is a lot different from what you’re used to, and it’s been noticeable with how you struggle to initially grasp certain things he tasks you to do. And it’s obvious more now than ever that you were really only ever a hunter’s daughter— trained to wait, to be patient instead of pushing on as the aggressor.

But firefights don’t allow such luxuries. Everything is quick, everything depends on mere seconds. You are always one moment away from dying, and it’s something that Arthur drills into you every time you make a mistake.

“It’ll cost you,” he had said, “With your life, or someone else’s.”

Such words are not meant to be condescending, but a harsh reminder. You know Arthur isn’t nagging at you as he was since your attempt at the real estate scheme, but it still doesn’t spare you from gritting your teeth and trying to do better.

Because Arthur, if anything, is a hard teacher. He does not go easy on you. He does not give you breaks. There are times where he takes you out for hours at a time, and after you’ve gone back to camp to eat, he takes you right back out again. There is never quite a pause, never quite a time for you to sit back and try and let your poor, battered body rest.

“There will be times where you’ll only be able to sleep for even just a few minutes before you’re on the run again,” he had told you, catching you nearly dozing as you worked on firing your repeater from behind cover, “You have to push through it, otherwise, they’ll put you to sleep for good.”

It has just been endless, and these past few days have just been driving you more and more up the walls as Arthur grinds everything into you. You’re like a pulp at this point, and you’re not sure how much more you can take without breaking in some way.

“You know,” you said, lowering your repeater and ticking your head downward, glaring at the outlaw across from you from under the brim of your hat, “It would be nice if my shoulder weren’t shot from the start.”

“If you’re complainin’ about bein’ sore, I don’t wanna hear it,” Arthur tosses the last bit of his spent cigarette to the ground, crushing it under the toe of his boot pointedly before coming to your side, “Bein’ sore just means that your body wasn’t strong enough, and it’s catchin’ up. It’s a good thing.”

With a huff, you lightly mock him, your words toned, “Not when it’s mucking up my shot, apparently.”

The outlaw doesn’t raise you your spittle, and he hums, hooking his thumbs on his belt and raising his chin as he peers down the way towards the fence posts. He looks at them for a good while, and what he is looking for or doing, you don’t quite know, but you find yourself getting impatient as he stands there, calculating whatever it is that has caught his fancy.

“What are we doin’ now? Am I gonna try and see if I can shoot one when ya toss it in the air? Say it’s because it’s gonna count later on?”

“If you’re just gonna try and hang me for tryna to prepare you, I’ll just see to it to leave you as you are right now,” he warns, “You may think all of this is just to mess with ya or is borin’ as hell, but the last thing you need to be doin’ is bargin’ in on a shootout with no damn idea as to what to do.”

“That ain’t what I’m sayin’...”

“Then tell me, what are you tryin’ to say?” Arthur turns towards you, head swaying with the motion to come at a tilt, his green eyes narrowed as he raises one hand to gesture to you, “That you’re tired? That you weren’t settled on somethin’ like this when you asked me to help you?”

Angrily, you look away, your grip on your repeater turning your knuckles white, it as tight as your voice, “I just— you keep on draggin’ me into this nonstop, and you’re actin’ like I’m supposed to be gettin' this from the get-go. I ain’t like you, yet.”

A dark look crosses over Arthur’s face then, and his voice is as gritty as it ever has been, “Trust me on this, you _don’t_ wanna be like me. You’re a fool for wantin’ that.”

“Arthur, don’t pull that again,” you chide softly, and you sigh, looking over towards the horses, “I’m not askin’ you to turn me into a monster... This ain’t corruptin’ me in no way.”

“This life ain’t one for nothin’ but monsters,” he glares out towards the horizon, “The fact you seem so willin’ to jump into it is what has me concerned.”

That stings, and you narrow your eyes at him.

“I’m not gonna run around killin’ people or makin’ their lives miserable,” your voice is harsh then, affronted at such a prospect.

Rolling his eyes, Arthur points out, “Well, I hate to break it to ya, but robbin’ and trickin’ folk usually leads to one of the two.”

“I won’t be doin’ that... Not... Not like you think. I just want to be able to protect myself. To handle things... I don’t— I don’t want to do the rest...”

Arthur relents some then, shaking his head and looking towards his boots, his face obscured entirely by his hat.

“I agreed to teach ya because I know if I don’t, you’ll get hurt or worse,” he says then, voice too calm for such a subject, “I know I can’t spare ya everythin’ while you run with us. You made that clear. But don’t think I’ll go about teachin’ you how to rob or—”

“I’m not...”

Your words are about as soft as the scowl playing on Arthur’s lips as he lifts his eyes to meet yours, an uncertainty plaguing them. You can tell he’s conflicted, that even just doing as much as he is tearing at his conscience something fierce.

“I just don’t know why you’re so hesitant. There’s nothin’ wrong about this, Arthur...”

The outlaw struggles for a moment, attempting to find the words he wants to say. You can tell he’s figuring things out, and he makes a small noise of frustration, moving his hands to his hips.

“I— you’re too good for this kinda life...”

The admission has you catching your lip, and Arthur looks away, almost ashamed at his own words. They surprise you, for sure, had you not expected Arthur to be so forthcoming. Usually, he wasn’t, and such exposure has you reeling for a second before you snort softly.

“You know, I’m not innocent... Not really.”

At that, Arthur shakes his head, offering a small chuckle of disbelief at such a statement.

“I doubt that.”

You raise a brow, crossing your arms as you tell him, “I actually stole somethin’ once. Before we even met.”

That has Arthur’s eyes widening, and he takes a partial step back, regarding you in a new light.

“It was from the general store,” you explain, seeing how Arthur focuses on you as you recollect that difficult moment, “It was after Francis came, the doctor I paid with my loan to help my father... He wasn’t doin’ good, even with the new medicine. I was desperate, and so I snuck a bottle of health tonic out right under the shopkeeper’s nose.”

Arthur’s eyes soften on you, and he asks, “What’d you do with it?”

“I— I wasted it, afterward. Dropped it onto the ground,” you say, words distant, “My father made me promise I wouldn’t do anythin’ else after I paid Francis... He had no idea I’d taken the loan, but he was suspicious... I knew if I took it back, he would’ve known I didn’t buy it. I think that made me feel guiltier than anything else. And it just... slipped through my fingers.”

“Last I checked, most thieves don’t feel remorse...”

The outlaw’s expression is grim, and he parts his lips a little before pressing them back together.

“Then the same can go for you... Just don’t think all of this is somethin’ bad wearin’ off on me... I have it in me, Arthur. We all do. The only thing that makes us different from animals is that we have a conscience and a choice.”

Arthur looks to you then, words as loud as a whisper, “Sometimes, we don’t.”

“Maybe not,” you admit, shrugging, “But in most cases, we can decide if we are to be monsters or people. It’s in human nature to feel that conflict, and it’s within human nature to make that choice. People who think it’s nothin’ but our design instead of our own decisions that lead us to becomin’ monsters are the ones that believe good and bad are inherent, almost as though we’re born one way or the other. That there’s no fault. But we aren’t, and we’re the only ones to be held accountable. For we’re all born innocent, but we all die as what we choose to be.”

At your words, the outlaw drags a hand over his chin, looking out and frowning in a way that looks aged beyond his years. You feel his weight then, of something much deeper pulling at his mind and the complexity of its thoughts. There’s something more underlying here, something that you can tell has existed in its internal dissension for quite some time, for longer than you have been involved with it. That strife has pulled on him, has worn the start of those wrinkles alongside forehead and around his eyes, stern like the lines of his frown as he lets out a bated breath.

A part of you wonders what discordance lies beyond your privy, at what has a man like Arthur Morgan, practically born and raised in the life of an outlaw, so broken behind this façade of his. What could possibly tear a man who has been built up from the very life that has him so conflicted in two?

But you figure you’ll never will. Because Arthur is as complex as they come at times, feigning ignorance when he knows better, appearing sated when his as unsettled as he could possibly be.

He is a man of many things, but an open book is not one of them.

You watch as he lets that bit of vulnerability fall away, building his wall back up from where it apparently hadn’t been tall enough before he peeks at you from the corner of his eye.

“You’re a bit wiser than you appear,” Arthur concedes, and he releases a hot breath before glancing towards the horses, “Think we both learned enough for one day.”

The outlaw walks forward, and you follow along as you always have. He mounts onto Boadicea without so much as another word, his face pinched and gaze clouded as you get onto D’or beside him.

Together, you ride back to camp, and once Arthur has Boadicea hitched, he tips his hat to you and takes his leave, not offering another word.

A part of you knows that he is working through something, with him being as closed off as he is. But what is bothering him so much leaves you at a loss as you head into camp, heading towards the girls’ wagon.

They’re singing one of the favorite songs, well into the verses and chorus right up until they notice your arrival, in which they break off and greet you with eager hugs and warm words.

“Girl, we’ve ‘bout gone nuts missin’ you!” Karen punches you lightly in the shoulder, putting her hands on her hips as Tilly rests her chin on your shoulder, arms still wrapped around you tight, “And you haven’t got a chance to tell us yet how your ventures into bein’ an outlaw have been goin’!”

“Oh, that?” your voice grows a bit sheepish then, and Tilly finally lets you go, leaving you to stand in front of them and see their three expectant faces, their eyes wide with wonder and curiosity, “It ain’t nothin’ special...”

Mary-Beth shakes her head, her grin as wicked as her voice is disbelieving, “Ah, now don’t try and pull our strings! We overheard a little from Hosea this mornin’, but he’s all about immune to our pryin’!”

“We wanna know more about that girl Emily! Hosea was tellin’ Dutch that you guys called it off because of her! Well, that, and he said you and Arthur couldn’t stop bickerin’!”

Tilly grins then, turning to the girls, “Remember the part when he said he got them to dress up, too! As a married couple, no less!”

“Oh, now I could never forget that!”

“And he said Arthur was so flustered! Couldn’t stop himself from starin’!”

A blush creeps onto your cheeks then, high and mighty and bright, and Mary-Beth sighs dreamily.

“I could just imagine...”

Huffing, you shake your head, feeling a bit ostracized from the girls as they go back and forth, saying more and more but knowing less and less as they keep their words get ahead of them. They’re cackling, enjoying themselves until they turn to you, taking in your slight annoyance and overall soured expression.

It’s Karen that stops first, her words and laugh dying in her throat, and her brow pinches.

“Hey, you alright?”

All three of them focus on you then, and your breath feels tight as you inhale softly, looking away and shuffling a bit of dirt with your foot.

“Glad to know I could provide entertainment,” you mutter.

“Hey, we aren’t tryin’ to be mean or anythin’,” Mary-Beth murmurs, and she takes a step closer to you, putting a hand on your shoulder, “We’re just— we’re excited, is all... Not one of us girls really gets the chance to go out and do somethin’ like this.”

“Yeah! Us girls are usually kept in camp to wash up things, to hold everythin’ down while the boys get sent out to do the fun errands,” Tilly crosses her arms and clicks her tongue, “They never let us do anythin’ fun!”

“I wouldn’t say it’s fun,” your tone is a bit short, and you find yourself bristled at their light take on what has happened since you’ve been gone.

“We’re just happy for you,” Karen murmurs, looking a bit saddened at your irritation, “We know we get a little stir-crazy here in camp, ‘specially since Grimshaw and Dutch have been ridin’ our asses before this ferry robbery. We just— we couldn’t believe you got to go out and do anythin’ during your first week here. It about took me kissin’ Sean just to learn how to fire a revolver! You must’ve been somethin’ otherworldly if they let you out that quick!”

“It wasn’t like what you were thinkin’... I—” biting your tongue, you shake your head, “That whole thing was a mess. And I only found more doubts in myself than confidence...”

Tilly tilts her head, her frown as slight as the concerned edge to her voice, “You need to talk about it?”

You relent, and you collapse onto one of the boxes at the girls’ wagon, all of them situating themselves around you to listen.

First, you tell them about Emily. Explaining her tragic past and how it played into her future in the worst of ways. The girls are on tense, hanging onto every word as you tell them the reason why you and Arthur asked Hosea to drop the scheme before it drove you further into its mess.

And then, you talk about Arthur, albeit as briefly as you can, knowing he’s somewhere brooding in camp. You pointedly don’t mention the kiss — something you’d much rather forget sooner than later — but you make sure to explain your fighting, about why things have been so torn between the two of you.

The girls look a bit angry at what you tell them, quoting Arthur’s words and explaining how you felt because of them. About how you doubted yourself, about how you felt not good enough while you rode with him.

But you make sure to tell them that you compromised in some way, that Arthur relented and is trying to help you. They seem to calm at that, albeit only a little.

“Dear lord, I had no idea he could be as sharp of tongue as that,” Tilly murmurs.

“It’s— I guess in some ways it’s worse than it sounds... I gave him as much hell as he gave me. And he saved my ass a few times while we were out,” you make sure to add, “I guess— I guess he was worried. And that’s the easiest way of showin’ it for him.”

You expect some argument, but the girls nod knowingly. After all, they know Arthur much better than you do.

“He’s never liked appearin’ soft, but he is at heart,” Karen says then, “It’s because of other men at camp that he has to put up a front, lest he is ripped to shreds over them for it.”

“Other men?”

Karen is about to answer you when there is shouting at the front of the camp.

Your eyes dart to the entrance of it, where Charles and some other man stand in the distance. Whatever their exchange is, it’s rather heated, and you frown as you try to see who it is that Charles is snapping with.

You jump when someone else comes up beside you.

“’Course the rat had to come back today...”

You find Arthur tensed at your side as the man approaches, taking off his almost-white stalker and running a hand through his blonde hair. He also rips open the collar of his red shirt, going to walk towards the main campfire until he seems to sense your own and Arthur’s eyes on him, and he follows the feeling to the source.

The moment his ice blue irises land on you, you feel your body tense, especially as his lips stretch over his yellowed teeth in a way that feels more predatory than friendly.

Arthur curses as he changes his path, now heading towards you, a newfound swagger in his gate.

“Thought you were off runnin’ work on that ferry,” Arthur edges, voice dark as the man closes the distance between you two, “Or did your head hurt too much to keep on goin’?”

The man sneers at Arthur, “You’d know a lot about that, wouldn’t you?” before Arthur can rebuttal with anything else, the man quickly points his attention back to you, and tucks his thumbs along the waistline of his roughed up, khaki jeans, “But, it seems like we got a new pretty face here in camp. Might I know your name?”

A sour feeling bubbles up in your stomach then, and the girls behind you have gone deathly quiet. You make a bit of a face, and you wish for anything to not be in this situation as he ogles you.

“Ms. Broce,” you offer curtly.

At that, the man raises out a hand, and Arthur takes a subtle step closer to you. You feel the tension between the two men, and it’s obvious that Arthur despises the being before you with everything in him as he grins back like a snake.

“Pleasure to meet you, Ms. Broce,” your name feels slimy coming off from his tongue, and he brings his hand up to where it is outstretched in offering to you, “I’m Micah Bell— though I’m sure you’ll be familiar with the name soon enough.”

Arthur’s words of warning flash back into your mind, and that is when it all clicks into place. You can see just how furious he is beside you, nostrils flaring and eyes narrowed as though he were a bull about to charge, his body tense and puffed up.

But before you can defuse the tension, it’s Arthur who takes an ominous step forward, his voice dropping an octave as he puts himself between you and Micah.

“You best watch yourself, Micah,” he warns, and you don’t miss the subtle way his hand goes to his revolver.

Micah raises his hands in mock surrender, laughing and taking delight out of Arthur’s upset as he peers at you around the man.

“There’s no need to be angry, Arthur! I’m just meetin’ our new friend here, s’all!” he takes a few steps backward, and his tongue darts over his lips in quick succession before you seem something else darken his gaze, “You take care, Ms. Broce. If cowpoke here gives you any grief, you know who to find if you want a good time.”

You about shudder at his words, and you can see how Arthur’s broad shoulders tense. Micah laughs, seemingly unbothered by the other man’s bristling as he turns on his heel, walking away to the campfire as though the exchange never happened.

“God, I about forgot how nasty he is,” Karen hisses under her breath.

Arthur is still rigid beside you, anger rolling off of him in waves.

“Think I know why you warned me about him...” you murmur, turning your eyes to Arthur from their corners.

“He’s a goddamn pissant,” spitting in the direction he left in, the outlaw grits out, “Should’ve stayed gone if he knew any better.”

The girls hum in agreement, and Arthur sighs, taking his hat off to rub at his forehead for a moment before turning back to you.

“Are ya busy?”

Humming, you nod back to the girls, “We were just talkin’ for a minute. Nothin’ big is happenin’, though, if you need to do somethin’.”

He nods, “Think you’re ready to ride out for a minute with me?”

“Yeah, lemme just finish up with the girls, and I’ll meet you by the horses.”

Arthur tips his hat quickly at the other girls, leaving towards where D’or and Boadicea are hitched a bit off from the girls’ wagon. You watch him leave, fussing about his satchel for a second before you’re back to facing the girls.

“See! Last time I road with Arthur or any man was when the gang came to this damned bog,” Karen huffs, “And I was in the wagon with the others! Tell me your secret, you temptress!”

That gets a slight snort out of you, and they all perk a bit at your humor edging back into your air.

“We’re not makin’ light of the difficulties of it. We know there’s a mighty difference between laundry and what the men do,” Mary-Beth makes sure to add, “But you’re the only girl who rides out with those boys, and we look up to you for that.”

A clenching feeling pulls at your ribs at that, and quietly, you ask, “You do?”

Tilly smirks, and she tilts her head at you, “Yes, of course! You’re an idol to us! We know now that there’s more hope for us than a bucket and lye water yet!”

Nodding, you wave a hand, “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind... See you guys when I’m come back ‘round!”

“Don’t forget your humble roots with us, that’s all we ask!” Karen calls back.

You turn with a laugh, jogging towards where D’or is hitched.

Working through some of the underbrush between the trees, you hear Arthur’s voice filtering through the calls of the songbirds.

“—that’s a good girl.”

Slowing your pace, you curiously peak over the foliage that blocks the way, and you almost don’t believe what you see.

It’s Arthur, brushing D’or as kindly as can be when you come up close, and you eye him curiously. He must not have heard you come up, as he works the soft bristles through her coat with one hand, and the other patting her softly.

“You look much better since you’ve gotten here. Your lady wasn’t lying when she said you was a good horse, nice n’ strong,” he says, voice deep with praise as he dips his hand back into his satchel, “Think that earns you a little treat, miss D’or.”

The smirk that stretches your lips is almost painful as his calloused palm emerges with a few sugar cubes held within it. D’or’s ears flick forward, her dark eyes focused on Arthur’s flattened palm and the white treats for her offered within it. She rumbles as she takes them, chewing them and flicking her tail happily as Arthur smiles at her acceptance.

“There ya go,” he gives her one more firm pat on her neck, stopping for a second to pick a leaf out of her blonde hair before stepping back, “Now, you keep that up, and there’ll be more treats in it for ya.”

D’or whinnies at him, throwing her head up in eager agreement as she stomps one hoof. Arthur laughs at her before going over to where Boadicea waits patiently beside the golden fox trotter.

You watch as he does the same routine, brushing his gray mare and whispering kind words to her before giving her a few sugar cubes as a reward. His movements are kind, gentle, and undemanding. You can tell he cares about these animals — respects them — and it makes your heart soar a bit.

After all, this is the same gruff outlaw that tried to constantly act tough and as hard as nails around you. And here he is, telling his horse that she’s pretty.

It’s too precious, and you want to watch more of it because you doubt Arthur would ever do anything like this around you. But, you’re not a creep, and you know that Arthur is waiting on you, so you call the gig quits and make sure to rustle the brush some before stepping out of it.

Arthur turns to where you seemingly arrive, and he clicks his tongue, “Took you long enough.”

“Karen is one to wear the ears,” you say easily, going over to D’or and smiling at how her coat shines form Arthur’s earlier attention — and, smirking when Arthur goes to undo Boadicea’s reins from her hitch, you add, “Looks like we need to thank Charles, he’s doing a good job at tending to the horses. D’or looks immaculate.”

You don’t miss the way Arthur’s shoulders bunch before he hops onto Boadicea, his voice purposefully even.

“I’ll make sure to let him know.”

Rolling your eyes some, you unhitch D’or and hop onto the saddle. You look to Arthur then, now level with the outlaw.

“Where to?”

“I think we’re gonna work on a different aspect of your lessons,” Arthur tells you, and he spurs Boadicea forward, you following in tow, “Somethin’ a bit more... hands on.”

Those words get a flash of excitement to pass through you, and your heartbeat quickens as you echo them, “Hands on?”

“As much as I’d rather you not be tryin’ to run into this, I figure it’s better to let you in bit by bit if I can manage... So you’re gonna help me with somethin’ today.”

As you both break onto the main road, you press further, “And that is?”

“It’s a lead Hosea picked up while he was in Strawberry with Mr. Matthews, nothin’ too big. There’s a homestead, up further past the town there. Strange folk, he said. Ain’t too straight either.”

Furrowing your brows, you shoot Arthur a questioning glance from under the brim of your hat, “And what business do we have with them?”

“None, if we can help it... See, you told me that you stole once. I feel if there’s an angle I can work, it's one you’ve already ventured into... The other stuff— I want to avoid that for as long as I can... But I brought you along because we intend on robbin’ ‘em blind.”

You open your mouth, a bit shocked, “Arthur—”

“You can turn around if you’re not able to do it,” his voice is a little bit harsh, but there is still no judgment there, just flat, crude honesty as he slows Boadicea down to a stop, “This life, I told you, is nothin’ glamorous. You pester, scheme, steal, and if needs be, you kill. Now, we only try to hit the folks that deserve it, but if you can’t keep up now and do somethin’ as easy as takin’ somethin’ that don’t belong to ya, there’s no needs for ya to push any further with this.”

You gape at Arthur, and he looks at you, as sternly as his words.

“You told me you wanted to do this, right? You do realize that and what that means—”

“Of course I do,” you lightly seethe, and you try and suck in a sharp breath, “I just— I didn’t think— I didn’t think you’d be takin’ me as you are... I didn’t expect you to—”

“Actually try and make you do somethin’?”

Nodding, you look away.

“You told me yourself I can’t keep you from this, so I ain’t. Now, I ain’t askin’ you to go murder someone... I’d never do that of you,” his voice is kinder then, and he messes with Boadicea’s reins in his hands, distracting himself with something to focus on, “But if you want to learn to be one of us, if you want to ride as one of us, then there’s no way I can keep teachin’ ya if you don’t actually mean what you say.”

You bite at your lip, and after a moment, you find your voice again.

“So you want me to steal from those folks to see if I’m serious, is that it?”

“Yes,” he doesn’t dance around it, and he’s looking you dead on, his green eyes locking onto yours and only driving his insistence further, “But you can say no. You can back out. But, if you do,” his words turn icy then, and they hold no give as he utters them, “you are to stay in camp, and not push for another bit of this.”

You swallow, meeting his hardened ultimatum with a stubbornness that is just as infallible.

“Fine...” you tilt your chin up, “I’ll go.”

“You sure you know what you’re gettin' into?”

“I never quite do. After all, it’s how I ended up here,” you point out, “But I never intend to meet the unknown with fear of its intimacy, Arthur. Now come on, are we ridin’ or what?”

He shakes his head, and you can tell he still isn’t sold on your answer or determination, but he still obliges you by spurring Boadicea to move once more.

“It’s a bit of a way off, further north from Valentine... Reckon it may take a day or two for us to reach there and stake things out...” you hum, glad that you had packed some extra items on D’or just in case, “Hosea told me they’re strange folk, as I said, been up in the mountains by themselves for a bit too long. No one can even really understand what they’re sayin’, so we need to be a bit cautious in how we go about this.”

“Sounds perfect for a first job,” you mutter.

“At least it won’t be Blackwater,” Arthur argues, and before you can say anything to that, he works Boadicea into a gallop.

You both cross over the Upper Montana River, much like you had done with Hosea only some days prior. D’or does better with it, not tiring as quickly as she rides behind Boadicea. She makes quick work of the country, stay headfast and strong with the gray roan at her side as you and Arthur ride through West Elizabeth.

Day gives way to twilight, and its brief life is soon ended by the oncoming darkness of night as you make it past Wallace Station before it gets too dark for you to see properly into the woods. An owl hoots nearby, giving the tall trees and the ominous woods around it an odd feeling as Arthur gathers his campsite equipment from Boadicea’s saddlebags.

“We’ll rest here for the night, and leave as soon as the sun starts to break come early mornin’” he informs you as he places some fallen branches into a pile to start up the fire, “You hungry?”

“I could eat,” you tell him, and you look back over to D’or from where she munches on some grass beside the other mare, “I can hunt us somethin’ if you’d like.”

“I think that’d work wonders,” he grins at you just as he lights a match, the flames lighting it up as the expression does with his face, “Go on, I’ll be waitin’ here for ya while I get everythin’ else ready.”

You nod to him, whistling for D’or and hopping onto her once she’s near. The outlaw bids you a quick goodbye, driving the steak for the small cast iron pot he has done before he starts to work on some carrots and other vegetables with his hunting knife.

You spur her forward, leaving Arthur behind to prep the rest of dinner as you go hunting the meat for it.

The moon hangs above, not as full as before, offering less light than you’d like as you trot D’or along into the trees. You’re expecting some raccoons and some other smaller creatures to be lurking about, but with the nip of the cold and the light of the sun long since gone, you know that it’s going to be a bit tougher to find something truly worth a damn.

Circling around for a few minutes, you get a bit frustrated, and you begin to head back, about to call it quits when you hear something rustle in the underbrush. To some benefit, it’s closer to camp, and you can faintly see the glow of the fire that Arthur is sitting beside.

Careful to not spook the prey that has practically walked into your hands, you begin to stalk it.

You end up finding a small clearing a few yards off, one by a pond that glows almost silver, even in the faint moonlight. Stopping D’or, you dismount, letting her drink from its waters as you grab the bow you’d gotten as a gift from Charles off of her saddle. A few frogs ribbit from around the pond, and you can hear the faint roar of Cumberland Falls nearby as you step over the thick grass of the clearing.

Because you can also still hear whatever it is moving about, and you try to spy it or tracks it could’ve left behind out from the ground below. You get closer to the trees when you feel the first wave of being watched wash over you.

Looking up, your eyes narrow to try and make anything out in the darkness, but all you can see is the campsite a little bit away, and D’or. The mare has caught onto something as well, having lifted her head and turned her ears back, shuffling a bit uneasily on her feet.

There’s something else here with you.

You ready your bow, your fingers pulling the arrow almost taught with the string. You swing it with your gaze, the weapon as steady as your breathing as you survey the woods around you.

But your attention comes too late.

You feel a weight crash on top of you, and a surprised noise escapes you. From above, a nasty growl makes itself known, and your body vibrates with the noise as you feel canines try and sink into your flesh.

Thankfully, they only catch onto the thick jacket Arthur had lent you when the cold from the mountains made itself known, and they rip the gray fabric instead of your actual arm. D’or neighs loudly, rearing back and letting her hooves slam back onto the ground in warning as you struggle.

A yell escapes from your chest, and you grab onto the thick fur of the creature attacking you, pushing it back enough to kick it away from you.

You shuffle back, seeing glowing yellow eyes staring at you as a deep howl rumbles through the air.

It’s then that you can make out the creatures’ face — a black timber wolf.

The wolf licks its muzzle at you, its gate slow as it stalks in a circle. You pick your bow and aim back at it, pushing more distance between you and the wolf as you prepare your arrow with a slight shake to your fingers, your aim trying to settle directly between those glowing, yellow eyes.

It’s a standoff between two animals easily capable of being both predators, and prey, and your breath stalls in your lungs as you notice the way its body tenses with the intent to strike. The string feels like a knife’s edge from where it cuts into your fingers, and you go to let it loose right as the wolf turns to leap.

But, you hear a commotion from behind you, and you violently shudder as the soil erupts from beside the wolf, spurring it to yelp and run away from the bullet that just only pierced soil.

The wolf races away, right as you hear a body crashing through the foliage.

“And stay gone, you damned, rabid mutt!”

You let out a shaky breath, watching that black body disappear into the woods as it came, almost like a ghost with how easy it disappears. Like a drum, your chest thunders with the rapid tempo of your heart, and you jump as Arthur’s hand comes down onto your shoulder.

“You okay?”

His voice is oversaturated with concern, and you lightly pull away from him as you go to stand, your eyes still trailing to where the wolf disappeared.

“’Bout as okay as I can be, I guess...”

“Don’t pull my leg like that, I mean it,” he chides at you as he throws his repeater across his shoulder.

“Arthur—” before you can truly argue or say any different, Arthur is pulling his jacket off of you, “Hey!”

“I need to make sure you wasn’t bitten,” he explains, about as even as he can be with the concern and barely restrained rage, his eyes stormy as the search you for wounds, “Last thing we need is you getting' sick or—”

You yank your arm back lightly and out of his grasp, rolling your shoulders as he stands in front of you, lips pressed together.

“I told you, I’m fine. Rattled, but fine...” you huff, grabbing your bow and hooking it from over your shoulder, “Not every day an animal like that gets the jump on me.”

Arthur snorts a breath through his nose, and he looks back towards camp, “It’s why I don’t like wolves. Nasty creatures, they are. They are as cunning as they are dangerous.”

You hum in agreement, and you step past the outlaw, going to where D’or is still shuffling uneasily. You outstretch your hands, talking slow to her and getting her to realize that everything was fine. She calms only a little, but truly doesn’t settle until you get close enough to pat her sides, brushing her blonde mane back with kind words of reassurance.

Arthur waits until you’ve got D’or back to her senses, and you grab onto her reins, opting to lead her back and walk with Arthur.

Your mind is still somewhat haunted by those yellow eyes as you return to camp. D’or happily goes back to grazing beside Boadicea, as though she hadn’t been spooked by the wolf only moments prior as you go to rest at the fire.

Arthur kneels from across from you, working what food he’s got in the pot with an occasional concerned glance thrown your way.

“You alright?”

“I told you, I’m—”

“You may not have gotten bit, but that don’t mean you ain’t bothered,” he points out, and you pout lightly, looking out towards the darkened outlines of the pines some yards out.

Your rebuttal is a bit unnerved, and you tuck your legs up to your chest, your arms crossing over them, “And I told you I was rattled.”

“I would be too. And I have been. In fact, I remember when I was... I got stalked by a mountain lion once when I was sixteen.”

Your interest is piqued a little, and you look at the outlaw as he stirs the stew he prepares for you both, looking as nonplussed as ever.

“You did?”

“Yeah. Was on a huntin’ trip with Hosea. We were lookin’ for a fox he wanted, and it made its den up near the hills. I remember feelin’ like somethin’ was off the entire time, but I could never really figure out why... Then, Hosea split off from me and I was left trackin’ it by myself. And it only got worse.”

Arthur removes the pot from the hook, and he lays it into the dirt, using the ladle to fill one of the two bowls he set aside with its contents.

“I ended up getting' corned by it. Heard that damned yowl and I turned white as a ghost. All I had on me was a revolver, and I knew it weren’t gonna be enough to put that bastard down until it got close enough, and that was the last thing I wanted.”

When Arthur hands your bowl out to you, you take it, and ask, “Did it attack you?”

“Tried to. Almost did. But Hosea had come runnin’ as soon as he heard it yowl as it did, and he shot it off... It’s terrifyin’, to feel like you’re a second away from bein’ torn to shreds, or worse.”

You swallow thickly, gripping tight onto the bowl as you stare into the stew it contains.

“Don’t think any less of yourself, and sure as hell don’t believe I think any less of you. As long as you ain’t bitten by a snake and I ain’t gotta suck the venom, I don’t much care ‘bout it. If anythin’, it is just a lesson.”

Bitterly, you ask, “And that is?”

“That you’re always a second away from bein’ killed if you’re not careful. That fragile second, where you think the next moment is the last one. And while it won’t always be a wolf, that fear never changes,” Arthur leans back, looking towards the night sky, “I can tell you that from experience... It’s somethin’ you will always feel, even for others.”

You take an absent bite of your food, swallowing it before you look back at the stars yourself. They glint overhead, twinkling and dancing about. Feeling so close, yet so far away at the same time as they glitter among the darkened heights above.

Curiously, Arthur’s words ring through your head, and your eyes drift back to him. He’s still stargazing, but his eyes and face are pinched. The firelight cuts a sharp contrast from the line of his jaw and the other parts of his face, and even with its dim lighting, you can see his scowl as plain as day.

You think about all of the warnings he’s given you so far, about all that he’s said to you. His hesitancy, his concern.

And now this — this test that he has set you up to. Despite all your assurance and willingness, a last-ditch effort to be sure. To rest any doubts he has...

“Do you feel that with me?”

Surprise colors Arthur’s face, and he looks back down to you.

“Do I what?”

“Do you feel that fear, with me?” you ask, and as Arthur’s brow pinches further, you go on, “Is that why you’re as hesitant as you are? Why you’re takin’ this the way you are, and why we’re even goin’ on this homestead robbery of yours? You’re just protectin’ me from that wolf stalkin’ overhead?”

The outlaw looks almost taken aback by your questions, but after a moment, he sighs. He takes a hand, rubbing at the back of his neck and abandoning his stew as you watch him. The chirps of the crickets are near-deafening in the quiet between the two of you, as Arthur figures out his answers, and you wait patiently until he finally gets them together.

Eventually, Arthur looks to you, the reflection of the flames dancing about the green in his irises, “I would be a fool if I outright believed you’d be fit for this life from the start. You have no experience, no knowledge of any of this. And the way you’re so eager to get into it is what worries me... I feel like... like if I don’t stop _you,_ then that’s where my problems will lie.”

You frown deeply at his words, murmuring, “So you’re just tryin’ to protect me from myself?”

“If I remember correctly, I was told _you_ were called a wolf growin’ up,” Arthur huffs an aborted laugh, “And I’m kinda startin’ to see as to why...”

“Hey!” a bit accosted, you scowl.

“It’s not exactly a bad thing. At least, dependin’ on what’s goin’ on...” Arthur explains, “If I had no faith or trust in you, then I wouldn’t be tryin’ to teach you. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be takin’ you on a job with me.”

Angrily, you remind him, “You didn’t even want to when Hosea invited me!”

“Darlin’, if I _really_ didn’t want you comin’ along, then you wouldn’t have.”

With a short noise of frustration, you figure he’s probably right. You have no doubt that Arthur would’ve been just as cunning as you were in your days of youth when it came to getting what he wanted. And if that had been keeping you in camp, then you’d still be back there, washing laundry and gossiping of ferry robberies and what your life was once like.

“Is that supposed to make me feel better? Is any of this supposed to make me feel better?” you huff, “You know, you’ve said some pretty nasty things to me about all this, and you’re telling me it’s because you’re trying to protect me from myself? That’s one odd way to try an apology. In fact, it’s quite backhanded.”

“No, I’m not doin’ that. This— it’s meant to explain things... I know we only talked about it a bit, our initial fight... I’m not much of a man of words, and I have trouble sayin’ what I mean sometimes. And in others, I do mean it, but it’s the wrong thing to say. But I get crossed, and it can come out lookin’ the wrong way instead of what it really is,” he sighs, putting his face in his hand for a moment before continuing, “This entire time, I’ve just been tryin’ to keep you out of harm’s crosshairs. Not because I don’t think you can handle it... but because I don’t think you’re ready. In fact, I know that you’re not... And all you want to do is throw yourself headfirst into the fray as you do, and that is what scares me...”

You breathe, looking towards the fire and letting Arthur’s admission play on your mind.

Arthur... he’s scared... scared _for_ you.

“I’ve seen this world kill many people. Many over greed and other sins like pride. But I’ve also seen it kill people who just want to survive. Wolf or not, this world don’t care much for us, and there’s a hell of a lot of people who don’t care for us neither... I’m just— I’m in your corner. Don’t think for a second I’m not...”

You think of the first day you met, with the dirt from your father’s grave on your hands and the tears on your cheeks just as fresh and cloying. You still remember the way Arthur seemed to flip when he saw you, softening around the edges, giving you kindness when he had no reason to offer it apart from his own will and heart.

He could’ve been like Francis, or Strauss, who took advantage. But he wasn’t... He was— he was so much more than that to you.

Even when you were fighting, even when he let the anger get the best of him and his words were as barbed as they were, he was  _scared_ for you. This man, this outlaw, who has gathered up your pieces during your most vulnerable moment, the one who has since tried to rebuild you as best as he knew how, has only ever been terrified and worried at your eagerness to take your chance at once again being broken.

So softly, as gentle as the way Arthur wrings his hands together from his nerves, you murmur, “I’ve never doubted that... And I’ve never doubted you, either.”

The outlaw peaks at you cautiously, like he expects nothing but your bristle and the sharpness of your chipped edges from how often he’s tried to keep them together.

“I— . . .” he starts, but his words die as he looks to you.

There’s something else he wants to say, to get out into the open here between the both of you. But it is obvious that you are not the only formerly shattered person who has been remade, once Arthur plucks what part of his wall that gave way, as that front of his reappears with a vengeance.

He pointedly looks away from you, standing upright and grabbing his carbine.

“I’ll make sure that beast is good and gone... Get some sleep.”

A part of you resents the way that Arthur has locked back up again, but it doesn’t come as a huge shock to you.

“Okay... Get back safe, Arthur.”

“Night...” Arthur pauses, and then he peeks back down at you, “Wolf.”

The new name pulls at your throat, and you blink up at the outlaw before he’s turning back, heading towards the woods with his repeater in hand.

He leaves you alone at the camp, and you all but collapse against your bedroll, staring at the stars and wondering if there’d ever come a time when Arthur Morgan wasn’t plaguing your thoughts.

  

 

 

 

 

**\---**

 

You’re not exactly sure at what point Arthur came back to camp to sleep, but he does as promised, waking you come the first light of dawn.

The sky as an eerie shade of blue as the sun begins to work its way over the mountains. You and Arthur are packed and saddled up before its even crested over the snowy peaks, already riding northward and to where this homestead supposedly was.

You and Arthur haven’t spoken much, your conversation where much was laid to bare to the other still too fresh to offer much of one now between the two of you, but the silence is thankfully bearable and not suffocating. You do feel more at peace with the man, as the two of you had never quite worked out your arguments from before out.

Up until this point, you’d really only ever decided upon his lessons, and now, your first test. You had never quite discussed the hurtful jabs you aimed at one another, at the way you dug with purpose under the other’s skin. But now, things make a bit more sense — things aren’t as fractured as they had been.

Like a mirror reformed, there is still something to find within the cracked reflection. But what that is exactly, you’re unsure.

Together, though, you ride up close to your intended target, and once you cross the wooden bridge right outside of its vicinity, Arthur slows Boadicea down right at the side of the road. You follow suit, stopping D’or beside him and looking to him for the next order.

“We’ll continue on foot,” he says, “We can try and scope things out from over here. Get a grip on things before we go runnin’ in.”

You nod, hopping off of D’or.

You leave the two mares a few feet from the beaten path of the main road, and head into the cluster of trees ahead. After taking a small incline up, you two stop along the jut of the cliffside nearby, giving you a decent vantage point— straight into the homestead.

Arthur removes his binoculars from his satchel, and he begins to survey the scene as you wait quietly beside him.

“There’s a barn in the back, and the house is rather large... Hosea mentioned it’s a bit of big family, but he didn’t say it’d be like this.”

You huff, “Figures we’d get short like this.”

“Well, they’ve been secluded for a while... But that means they’ve kept all their money and other valuables to themselves,” Arthur removes the binoculars and then offers them to you, “Here, see if you can spot anythin’... The trees make it hard to see much.”

You see the house in question and whistle, noting its two stories and the barn Arthur had mentioned to you.

“Seems like a big property alright,” you comment, handing the binoculars back to the outlaw at your side, “Think we could maybe sneak a little closer to get a better look?”

Your suggestion colors Arthur with a bit of consternation, “You really wanna do that?”

“Don’t think we’ll know much better otherwise. ‘Sides, if we get caught, we can always play pretend like before. Seems to work a charm.”

Arthur chuckles softly at that, shaking his head, “Fine... But I take the lead. And stay quiet. Until then, wait for what I tell ya to do.”

“Got it.”

The outlaw places his binoculars back into his satchel and then motions you forward. You two walk most of the way there, but once more of the homestead comes into view, Arthur motions for you to drop down beside him. Together, you both stalk forward at a crouch, coming up behind what looks like a shed at the edge of the property.

Nearby, two horses are hitched, and you can tell that one has just been ridden with the fresh mud that dirties its tan coat. You nudge Arthur, pointing towards it, letting him know that you may not be alone.

He frowns, and then points to the edge of the shed, motioning for you to move up. Nodding, you head there with him, quickly climbing over the wooden fence lining the property before you both take cover behind the hay bales there.

You can hear someone across the way, and you feel your heartbeat ramp up as voices pick up from where you listen in hiding.

“—was ya?”

“Takin’ a tiny stroll, I was. Nothin’ baddie. No need to get worn ‘bout it.”

The other man makes a noise of frustration, “Well, I is worn, boy. Too worn. The round walks go to Jamie now.”

“No! Now Jamie get all the jam!” the man cries.

You share a confused look with Arthur as their odd argument continues.

“You gotta pull it up, boy. Up,” the first man tells him, “Now get in the ya room. Don’t want to see another lick of ya till it’s well and orange out here.”

“Yes, pa...”

You hear the two separate and part off, causing you to turn your attention back to Arthur who looks just as bewildered as you are.

“Guess Hosea wasn’t kiddin’ when he said they were... different,” you whisper.

“They’re strange, that’s for damn sure... Don’t even think that’s the right word for somethin’ like this,” he huffs, and he steps off to the side, peaking around the edge of the shed before yanking himself back into cover, cursing, “And easy won’t be the right word for this, either...”

“What do you mean?”

The outlaw throws his head back against the shed wall, cursing something internally before answering you, “There’s quite a few of them... At least six, and who in the hell knows how many of ‘em are in that house.”

“Do you think we should come back—”

Before you can finish your question, you hear the approaching sound of horses. Both your own and Arthur’s head swivel towards the path leading up to the house towards the course of the noise. Arthur hunkers you both down, pushing you back and covering you with his body, his cattleman already unholstered.

Four men arrive on horseback, all wearing dark clothes with random bits of green about their outfits, and all of them laughing up a storm. You watch on, feeling something constrict in your chest as they all stop at the front of the property, and one takes a step forward.

“Anyone home?” he shouts, his accent chipper as it is angry.

From your spot in hiding, you hear the others on the property begin to murmur and move, leaving you to swallow hard as Arthur slowly begins to move you both back further and further without being noticed.

“What’s you want!?” the man from earlier shouts, and you miss the telltale pump of a shotgun, “We want none of you odd brains here!”

“Oh, and we don’t want none of you freaks, neither!” your eyes widen as the man raises his revolver at his side, “We just want what money you’re hidin’ in that house of yours and then we’ll be on our merry way!”

“Ain’t nothin’ in that house worth of pickin’,” the man hisses, “Either you step off quick, or I blow bits straight out and through ya!”

“Don’t think that’s what’ll be happenin’ today, ya old croon!”

Before anything else can be said, the ominous crack of a shot rings through the air. You jolt against Arthur, nearly falling back at the following shootout that ensues. Birds flap wildly from the trees, and your ears ring as Arthur just grabs onto you and pulls you out of the haze of it all. You go back to where you had been scouting earlier, far enough to not hear or even _feel_ the bullets whizzing overhead, and you eye the homestead with horror at the sounds that come from it.

“Arthur, we just can’t—”

“We gotta wait it out,” he tells you, his voice forced even despite the way his eyes never leave the homestead, or the way you can feel him respond in kind to the shootout that is still going on at the homestead, “We might run into them tryin’ to flee, or if there’s more of them just waitin' past the ridge there.”

“Maybe we could—”

“Those are O’Driscolls back there. And if you think there’s a chance in hell we could deal with them as we are, then you’re downright insane,” he tells you.

You frown, “O’Driscolls?”

“A rival gang to us, and trust me when I just say we are better off not messin’ with them. We only saw four, but those bastards travel in packs...” he rubs a hand over his face, noting how there seems to be less and less gunfire, “We just have to wait till their down rampagin’ the place, and then we can leave.”

You look back to where the homestead is right as the last gunshot rings out, the sound carrying and carrying until it leaves nothing but a heavy silence in its wake.

But even from this distance, you can hear the slight jeering of the men from before, and your stomach sinks a bit.

A few more moments pass, and you hear them coming up the road. You and Arthur settle back down as their horses ride on by, a bit of their conversation carrying through the woods and to you and Arthur.

“—course they wouldn’t have anythin’ worth a damn. We’ll just have to let the big boss know that it was a waste.”

“Ain’t a waste if those freaks are dead!”

They all burst out into callous laughter, and your skin prickles with goosebumps as they finish riding off. You look back to Arthur, already seeing how the man’s face is torn with the options at hand.

“Do you think they missed it?”

“They’re O’Driscoll’s. They’re dumber than a box of rocks even all put together... But—” Arthur looks back to you, “If they did, and we wanna be sure... We’d have to go look ourselves.”

You swallow, looking back towards the homestead pensively.

“It’s up to you, I can understand if you want to—”

“No... Let’s— let’s check.”

Arthur doesn’t believe you, at least not outright, so he pushes further.

“Are you sure? You can see a lot that you probably won’t like up there...”

“Well, if I’m a wolf like you call me, and if this is what we set out to do... then I need to get used to it," you tell him.

You can tell he still isn’t entirely sold on the prospect, but he will entertain you for now. You’re obviously nervous, and a bit apprehensive as you both walk back to the homestead, and your anxiety lingers like the gun smoke in the air as you both openly walk in through the front.

Bodies lay about, all in the mud and moved in some way. They’ve been looted and looked over, and you try to ignore the pools of crimson that collect underneath them, soaking into the dirt below.

Beside you, Arthur isn’t bothered. At least, by the massacre before him, but rather, at the way you try to process and force your way through all of it. You know enough about this man to know this is not the first time he has been witness to such scenes like this, and you sure as hell know better than to believe he wasn’t the cause for some of them, either.

It does little to settle you, but you try not to let your nerves get the better of you as you look between the house in the cabin.

“You take one, and I take the other?” you suggest, feigning indifference as Arthur comes up beside you, his presence as grounding as you need it as you make sure the bile in your throat doesn’t go any higher, “We can meet in the barn to search if we don’t find anythin’.”

“Fine by me,” he says, and he goes to move, but hesitates, “But if it gets to be too much, just say so, and we’ll leave.”

“A bit too late for that,” you mutter, and you head off towards the main house, leaving Arthur to curse softly before leaving towards the cabin.

The main house is a wreck, having been torn apart by the men who’d been searching for the exact same thing you’d come to take. O’Driscoll’s, as Arthur called them. You’ve heard of them once or twice, as a kid, but not in a moment... They hadn’t been out westward in a while if memory serves. And if this was your first time having a near run-in with them, then you’re a bit glad that was the case.

There isn’t much left, but you do manage to find a gun case with a rather worn and unkept shotgun on one of the upper levels, and you decide to strap it to yourself so that, at the very least, you don’t leave this damned place empty-handed.

But, there’s not much else, and you end up leaving the house to head to the bar. Arthur already seems to have wandered there, as he comes down from the ladder leading to a small overhang above. He’s smiling, especially when he comes across you.

“Looks like we found a little somethin’ for all our trouble,” he shows you a small jewelry bag and a decently filled money clip, “Now, it ain’t much, not like Hosea made it out to be, but it’s better than nothin’.”

“Have you checked the rest of the place?”

“No, just up there once I noticed the ladder. Everything doesn’t seem tore up in here. Don’t think they even bothered with the barn.”

“Then they are idiots like you said.”

You turn, looking over to the single, empty stable in the back when Arthur notices your own find.

“Ah, a pump shotgun! Some decent amount of elbow grease and gun oil, and it looks like you got yourself a decent weapon.”

“It’s the only thing I could find that was left and worth takin’ in the house,” you admit, flushing lightly as you enter the stall with Arthur behind you, “Your find is much better though.”

Arthur snorts, “There wasn’t anythin’ left in the cabin, so we’ll call it even... But hey, look at this...”

You both take interest upon the box set in the middle of the stable and the slight space underneath it.

“Here, help me move this.”

Together, you both push it out of the way, and it reveals a small hole dug into the dirt below, and a metal lox box held within it.

“Oh, they definitely did not check the barn.”

You lean down, grabbing ahold of lockbox and feeling the cool metal against your fingertips as you go to open it. When you do, several stacks of cash have you nearly dropping the damn thing back into the dirt.

“Holy shit,” you say hotly, and Arthur whistles at all the bills that come into view.

“Now that’s more like it.”

“There must be—” you grab a few of the clips, flipping through the money and having your eyes about bogle out of your head, “at least a few _hundred_ dollars here. Maybe almost three?"

Arthur claps you on the shoulder, “Quiet a decent first take!”

Your throat about goes dry, “Do I get it all?”

“Well, ah, here’s the thing... Usually, the gang gets a slice. About half, usually. And then the rest is split up between whoever came and worked the job,” a part of you feels your excitement wane dreadfully with the news, especially at the loss of so much money, “But... seein’ as this is your first take n’ all... you can have mine.”

“Arthur!”

He holds his hands up, smirking, “My consolation was paid in havin’ you prove yourself when you didn’t have to. I don’t need anythin’ else.”

“But we didn’t even do any of this... If anythin’, we’re like vultures pickin’ off what’s left.”

“You didn’t have to come along, but you did. You didn’t have to stay, but you did. You sure as hell didn’t have to walk through all this mess to find this money, but you did. That’s proof enough for me. If you weren’t able to commit, we would’ve been back in camp before sundown yesterday before any of this even happened, change of plans or not.”

Your throat feels rough as you eye the money in your hands.

“But... Arthur, you realize... this would be more than enough to pay off my debt to the gang... I— . . .”

Arthur is still smiling as you look back to him, but it’s somber and bittersweet.

“I know, Wolf... That’s— kind of the beauty of it.”

You blank, and you look back down to the cash in your hands, your mind flying a mile a minute.

You could buy your freedom, you could _leave_ and no one could stop you.

And yet...

Around a week ago now, you were fresh into this. Your father had just passed away, and the very man in front of you came to collect the debt that you owed his people. You were drug out from your home, thrown into work, and soon you were learning how to be an outlaw all within that short amount of time. You were threatened and welcomed — hated and loved — and with each passing day, with each moment spent in the company of the man who eyes you so sadly now, something has begun to. . . shift.

This was all about survival at first. About making it since your father didn’t, and to find some way to make the days bearable. The concept of having this money — of having enough to pay back your debt — felt like nothing more than daydreams. Of something you would never manage to do.

But here you are, with the ticket to your freedom in the form of the bills in your hands, and with Arthur smiling wistfully at you.

And yet, you don’t feel any excitement. Any happiness at the prospect.

“For someone who’s gonna be able to pay off your debt, you don’t look none too happy...”

“No, I’m— it’s just...” you look back down at the money, worrying your lip, “Didn’t think it’d come so soon...”

“Dependin’ on how you go about it, fifty dollars ain’t hard to earn in this life if you do it right. That, or you get damned lucky,” Arthur tells you, and he gestures to the stacks of cash held precariously in your hands, “Take that as a sign. As not just a lucky break.”

Scowling, you regard the outlaw, “What kind of sign is that?”

“That you have an out.”

The word stings, to your surprise. It’s a revelation that you didn’t expect, a hurt you didn’t know you would feel. And as you look to Arthur, it echoes in pangs in your chest, constricting and damning all the same.

Quietly, you murmur, “An out... Sounds like you want me to leave, Mr. Morgan.”

“I want you to live, Wolf. This— I’ve been at this for over twenty years... I told you, I have seen this life kill folk, even the ones who try and keep their hands clean of it all when the rest of us don’t care about the filth of it. The point is— you didn’t get to choose this like the rest of us. You were down on your luck, and you took that debt to try and save your father. The only reason you ain’t dead or worse is because I intervened, and I kept that from happenin’. And here you are, tryin’ to get into the dirt of it all when you don’t even have to.”

You huff, “We’re not reopenin’ that can of worms, Arthur. I refuse to. What’s done is done. After all, didn’t you suggest takin’ me here anyways? Some test you said? I was just fine with everythin’ else.”

“I did want to do this, yeah, but I brought you here to give you an idea as to what you were so eager to get involved in. And this here ain’t even close to what we really do, what you’d have to do... But, in the process, you get the money you need to walk away clean and easy before you end up like the countless others who asked the same of me and didn’t learn quick enough, or they never got the damn chance before they was killed.”

You stand, leveling yourself with Arthur, your words playing off a faint sense of hurt, “So that’s all this is? A peep into the life that Arthur Morgan leads? Failed homestead robberies and twisted motives? And to think, I thought you were gettin' confident of me.”

“I’ve never thought of you as helpless. But, I think of you as naïve of a fool as they come,” he steps closer then, framing your hands with his own calloused ones, “You don’t owe us to stay, or to become monsters like us. It’s just money that you have to give up. Why can’t you see that you don’t owe us your life, too?”

You break your gaze away, looking down to where Arthur’s hands wrap over your own. Their heat, their touch. It only sinks his words down further, as though they sharpened their point.

“So that’s it? Just a few days after all this... Leavin’ everythin’ I know behind, runnin’ with you, learnin’ about you— it’s all nothin’ because of some money?”

“It ain’t nothin’,” Arthur corrects, “And it ain’t just money... You shouldn’t be stuck here with us... I told you, you didn’t have a choice to come along, it’s what happened after everythin’ else. I don’t think I could live with myself if I didn’t insist that you take this chance to see that and to go back to your life before you either waste it, or have it end like so many others I’ve seen.”

“Arthur... I... I ain’t got nothin’ else for me...”

Arthur’s face pulls at your words, at the way your voice waivers. Your grip on the money tightens, and your hands fall away, leaving Arthur’s to hang sorrowfully in the air in their absence.

“There ain’t no other life... Not really... I— I couldn’t go back to my cabin. Not anymore. There’s nothin’ worth savin’ there, and I came to terms with that when you got me. And this here, even all of this, won’t be enough. I’d end up in debt with the bank right after I pay off Strauss, only this time it’s the government I owe.”

Arthur shudders a bit at that, and you can tell that concept is not one he fancies pleasantly.

“Just— think about it, Wolf. I’m not demandin’ you to go runnin’ off first thing, not if it’s just gonna bring you more trouble, but... It’s just fifty damn dollars... Your life is worth a hell of a lot more than that.”

Before you can say anything to Arthur, the man nods to you once and turns, walking out through the main doors of the barn. You are left alone as he whistles for Boadicea as the heavy doors fall back into place, cutting off your view of him.

The money in your hand burns and your eyes sting just as well as you look down to it.

Oh... what are you going to do now?

  

 

 

 

 

**\---**

 

A few days pass.

You spend them working with the girls back in camp and tending to other bits and pieces. The camp is lively with the oncoming arrival of the ferry robbery, only a few days away now. You simply try to busy yourself in an attempt to ignore it, and the growing cavern of doubt splitting you into halves.

It’s almost an ultimatum — the robbery.

If there is ever a time for you to leave, it’s now. Now when you’re not too deep, or too intertwined with the gang to part ways. Especially before a heist to the likes of this robbery. It would be the easiest time for you to gather up your things and leave like you were never here in the first place. It wouldn’t hurt, at least, not as much as it could, and you’d be able to try and truly start over.

But. . .

The second side, the black to the white, has you hesitating. It’s the reason why you have stashed the money you made from the homestead bust in your bag, and why you try to pretend it isn’t there. It’s the reason why you lie to the girls when they ask what you and Arthur got up to for the three days you were gone, all giggles and excitement when they had no idea how easy it could be for you to just up and disappear on them.

This second side, one that has come to enjoy Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Karen... The one that has come to respect Hosea, and Charles...

The one that has come to care about Arthur.

It feels like a petulant child, sticking its feet into the dirt and tugging at your shirt sleeves, crying out to you that it doesn’t want to leave.

You feel torn from it, by both the initial desire you had to make it until you could afford your freedom, and your newest to try and keep what it would now cost you.

An internal war rages on within you, the battlefield of your conscience littered with what-ifs and uncertainties. The surmounting casualties of your attempts at making a decision count up and up like tally marks yet to be crossed. All of it is damning all the same.

Your fracturing, your split. You don’t know how to piece yourself back together again, to which fork in the road you should take.

It is daunting as it is impossible.

And so, you try and refrain from giving it consideration. That not allowing it the time of day will let it fade back into non-existence. To not give it the breath of life by your attention, so that it may suffocate out from lack.

If you busy yourself, if you only focus on the present and not the undetermined future, then there would be no worries than what’s at hand.

And with the ferry robbery coming up sooner rather than later, there is much at stake.

Everything that could possibly be put away has been, and the gang’s nerves are frayed as the time of the robbery wears on, closer and closer, stalking at a distance. The men are fighting more, with their stress crackling and building to the point where they snap. You have to break apart a few fights, mainly between Bill and Micah, and it’s done nothing to help the unease lingering over the camp like smoke.

But to make matters a bit more complicated, John and Abigail finally returned from town with Jack. Abigail was as mean as a snake when the others pressed, keeping her boy close and not wanting anyone other than John to bother him, and she sure as hell did enough fretting for everyone else in the camp.

It was obvious that Jack was sick, as his coughs and red nose were anything to go by. He looked pitiful, often complaining about not being able to play when he wasn’t asleep in their tent.

He had asked you when you were walking by if you could. But Abigail set after you before you could tell him anything, and your heart only ached at the way the boy looked downtrodden from his apparent imprisonment.

John, who you’d come to know a bit better apart from the moment you shared when you initially arrived, is just as short. Not that he isn’t exactly unkind to you, but he’s rather impassive. Uncaring. Abigail usually works him up, and the two are heard fighting more than they are anything else, even after they part to stew on opposite sides of the camp.

Their constant screeching has even you irritated, and with your own turmoil plaguing you, it makes a very toxic mix for sure.

And so maybe it’s why you snap. On Micah and Bill as they get into it for the third time that day alone, and you grab them each by their lapels and toss them apart, your fury evident.

The scolding you gave was one for the books, and while Bill looked as though he was ready to swing, either at you or Micah, you weren’t having none of it. And, a Hosea backed you up, declaring that their fuss be done with or else, the two men grumbled and parted ways after more force, the process like peeling bark off with your nails.

You were still huffing yourself afterward, and as you go to Pearson’s tent to grab what was needed for lunch, a familiar voice comes up from behind you.

“Looks like someone’s hotter than a coal today.”

You set down the bag of cornmeal and sigh deeply, and you look towards the sky in a quick prayer before turning to see Arthur leaning against one of the tables, his eyes trained on you.

“If this is about draggin’ those fools apart, then I ain’t apologizin’.”

“Nah. You don’t have to. It needed to be done. They always bring the worst out in one another, and it don’t help that they’re shorter than wicks sometimes with their tempers,” Arthur straightens himself and comes forward, “But you need to get outta here for a minute. You look like you’re about to explode yourself.”

You exhale hotly, the breath heavy and deep as you look to him, worn thin and tired, “I’d appreciate that...”

“Come on, then. Abigail asked me to grab some things in town for Jack if that’s alright.”

“As long as I ain’t gotta break up another hissy fit, then I’m fine.”

Arthur chuckles, and motions for you to follow.

You both head out, passing Javier on patrol and biding him farewell as you both saddle up quick. You can tell that Arthur was itching to get out himself, with the way he spurs Boadicea away.

It’s only until you’re a good distance from camp, almost halfway to Blackwater before Arthur speaks to you.

“So... have you made up your mind?”

At his prodding, you grip onto D’or’s reins a little tighter than necessary, your words clipped.

“I’m tryin’ not to think about it,” you admit, “’Sides, haven’t had much time to anyways, with the gang runnin’ ‘round like it is.”

“There hasn’t been a dull moment, that’s for damn sure,” the outlaw agrees, “But surely you’ve still considered it?”

Frowning, you glare ahead to where the steeple of the town church comes into view, “I have... And I ain’t no closer to a decision than when I started.”

“Hey, I was only wonderin’, no need to bite at my head... But you should probably think more on it, if you can. With this ferry robbery bein’ a few days away, there’s really not gonna be a better time to leave for a while yet.”

“I know,” you mutter, and you both slow your mares down as you come upon the start of Blackwater.

You two don’t say anything else as you head to the general store, hitching both Boadicea and D’or outside before entering.

The shopkeeper greets you both, all smiles and encouragement as he informs you of his fresh stock, and the sales he has going on. You merely nod to him, splitting off from Arthur to browse the wares stacked neatly upon the shelf. The outlaw moves around, going and picking up what he needs as you browse.

You stop in front of the tonics, your eyes trained on the dark green bottles and remembering the last time you were here, and what you had done.

It feels odd, because you don’t feel that pang of guilt as you did then. If anything, disappointment. At yourself? At the waste? You’re unsure.

You still stare though, something pulling in your chest as Arthur comes up quietly beside you.

“Wolf,” he whispers, “You alright?”

“M’fine,” you mumble, and you force your eyes to break away, “You get what you need?”

Arthur nods, still looking on to you with some concern fringing his gaze as you walk up to the counter, “Yeah... Figure we’re ready to head out after this.”

You hum in acknowledgment to his words, but your attention moves to the windows and the view outside as he pays. He’s making quiet conversation with the shopkeeper, telling him about the joys of coffee and a fresh shave when you catch a familiar face coming down the street.

Your heart all about stops, and you take a step forward out of reflex, squinting to make sure that your eyes weren’t playing tricks on you.

“—and I never touched a razor until I knew better,” Arthur chuckles, but it dies off as he notices you and your state, “Uh, ‘scuse me...”

The shopkeeper bids you both well as Arthur comes up to your side.

“What’s wrong—”

“It’s Garret Matthews,” you hiss under your breath.

Arthur’s eyes widen, and he looks out to where your gaze is pinned, seeing the man work his way down the road. He turns about as pale as his gray union shirt as he recognizes him just as you did.

“Ah, shit...”

You motion for Arthur to move as he comes to cross the street, coming closer and closer to the general store. Together, you both move to where your backs and sides are facing more towards the windows, and even with you peeking, you know your faces will be more than obscured unless Garrett was truly paying attention.

But he doesn’t, passing the store without taking notice of either of you, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

“That was too close...” Arthur breathes.

You shake your head, already stepping towards the doorway of the store, “What is he even doin’ here?”

“Maybe he’s talkin’ to the bank. After all, he’s tryin’ to buy that plantation from ‘em.”

“That would make sense, but the bank isn’t even in that direction,” you point out, and Arthur’s face grows a bit grim at your point, “The hotel ain’t even that way...”

Arthur comes closer to you, putting the last item he bought into his satchel before fixing you with a look, “Wanna tail him then?”

“Wouldn’t hurt...” you hum, looking back out towards the road, “I feel about like a cat, with the way it’s got me curious.”

“Well, need not worry, miss,” Arthur jokes, “Satisfaction did bring it back, after all.”

You chuckle at the outlaw, and wave a hand as you head out, “Come on, we best not lose him.”

The two of you leave the store, walking in the direction Garrett had left in. Your eyes scan the streets, dismissing unfamiliar faces of the people that pass or that come into view. Arthur does the same beside you, studying everyone until his eyes light up, and he nudges your side.

“There— looks like he’s going into that buildin’.”

Your eyes manage to catch Garrett as he enters the place that Arthur pointed out, and your stomach sinks.

“Wolf?”

“He’s gone to Francis,” you whisper, and Arthur’s eyes pinch in confusion before you hiss out, “That’s the doctor I paid to try to help me with my father...”

Arthur’s gaze darkens at that, and his face grows stony as he turns his gaze back to Francis’ business, “That’s the bastard you took the loan for?”

“Yes, but come on, we don’t have time to talk about what’s happened when something is happenin’ right now,” you go ahead and take a step forward, only to be grabbed on the shoulder by Arthur.

You pivot towards him, looking lost as to why he’s showing such hesitancy.

“You sure ‘bout this? He could just be gettin' some medicine or—”

“No one local here would ever recommend going to Francis. Even to strangers, they’ll tell you that you’re better off takin’ your chances or just buying tonics from the store. I doubt that’s why he’s here.”

“Then what do you reckon he’s visitin’ over?”

You sigh, and start walking towards the building, “Only one way to find out...”

Arthur tails you as you come to the side of the building. You're careful to avoid the view of the windows, and you slink to the side of the building. Thankfully, there’s a bit of a break between Francis’ office and the jeweler beside him, and the small alleyway gives you the perfect route to go to the back of the building.

Crouching, you and Arthur sneak to the back, finding a door propped open and allowing you both to sneak inside. You try and make your movements as light as possible, and as you enter through the back of his office, you begin to pick up bits of the conversation being had in the foyer.

“—don’t care. I paid you good money to work this as you have, and I will be damned if somethin’ as little as your daddy’s journal ruin this.”

It’s Garrett, and you peek around the counter to see them on the opposite side of the room. He’s pointing a finger at Francis, who, to some of your own satisfaction, looks terrified and not his usual cocky self. Arthur leans over you, also getting a good look at the scene unfolding between the two men.

“You don’t understand, that’s— that’s somethin’ personal of mine—”

“I _need_ those papers. You might have helped us with them so far, but somethin’ else has come up, and I find my patience is runnin’ short.”

“I’ve done everything you’ve asked of me!” Francis shouts, “I even killed Claudius for you, and yet you still demand more!”

Your skin turns icy, and you feel Arthur’s breath catch from above you.

“And that we both appreciate, but the deal I had has fallen through. Those damned lowlifes I paid to work this ran out on me, and I’ve gotten more trouble than it’s all worth because of it. Because you know what happened? That whore’s child got free.”

Francis sputters, leaving Garrett to glare his way, “S-She did?”

“Did your ears stop workin’, or are you just that stupid?” Garrett seethes, “Yes! She did!” his voice booms in the room, and your grip on the corner of the counter tightens as you continue listening, “And you know the worst part of it all? We didn’t write her off. Not in the way that counts... We went off your word, or more importantly, your father’s, and we took it to the bank. They did take her off as Claudius’ heir, but he still had the land going to her in his will.”

“But her not being kin—”

“He wrote to where it still was legitimate,” Garrett growls, “She still has a claim to the plantation— it’s why we tried to have her killed. But the men I hired for that also decided to take matters into their own hands, and tried to sell her off to die in the mines at Annesburg before she escaped.”

You share a look with Arthur then, but your attention snaps back to Garrett as he curses.

“People think she’s missin’, and when the bank didn’t have her claim the plantation in a week’s time, it went up for auction by default. And with Emily runnin’ ‘round, she can come back and ruin all of the hard work we’ve done! So I’m gettin' that damned journal, Dr. Cole, come hell or high water!”

Garrett raises his cattleman at Francis, and you and Arthur both turn as stiff as stone as its barrel glints dangerously from where its aimed at the crooked doctor.

Francis looks paler than a sheet, and he swallows as he adjusts his tie. Garrett eyes him coldly, his face looking as twisted as ever as the man before him tries to calm his frayed nerves.

“I— . . . I will give it to you,” he sounds too reserved for the situation, his eyes a bit wild, “But it’s at my estate... I... I will have to take you there and grab it for you.”

“You better, you piece of shit,” Garrett clicks his revolver threateningly, “Or I’ll be sure to let you visit the old man a bit early.”

“Go ahead and head that way... It’s right outside, by the church,” Francis trembles, “I’ll head out a few minutes after you, so we’re not seen together.”

Garrett snorts a hot breath through his nose, “If you think you can take the chance to run, I’ll have you know that there are men much worse than me who will gladly hunt you down. Especially if you piss off the one I’m workin’ for.”

Francis nods in acknowledgment, only relaxing some when Garrett holsters his pistol and turns to leave.

He shoves open the door, his fury bellowing out and leaving Francis to shake from his spot by his chairs. And it isn’t until the door shuts and that Garrett is gone that he collapses, gasping and working through his shock now that his front need not be up.

You watch as he hiccups and tries to breathe, his hands a blur from both their unsteadiness and haste as he reaches into his jacket, pulling something out from a pocket on the inside.

He removes a small book, worn and old by the looks of it, and he nearly trips as he goes to a bookcase over by the wall. He removes a small box lining one of the shelves and almost drops it as he pulls it down.

With shaky fingers, he undoes the clasp to it, and shoves the book inside, making the exchange as quick as he can manage before shelving the container. Adjusting it for only a second, he attempts to make it look untouched, cursing before he takes a step back and rushes towards the door.

He leaves, eyes wide and panicked, and you can tell that there’s something wild about the man as he bursts out of the door.

You and Arthur wait for a few moments, not until you’re certain that Francis wouldn’t rush back into the room before you move from your spot.

The air hangs heavy as you both wordlessly walk forward, your attention fixated on the box that Francis had fooled with before you get close enough to reach it.

You grab it down, opening it as Francis had and grabbing out the book he had placed inside of it. The leather cover feels dry against your fingertips, and you hand the box to Arthur to put back as you study it.

“What do you think that is?” Arthur asks quietly.

“Not sure just yet... But whatever it was, it was important enough to hide from Matthews,” you state, and you open it up, finding fine, faded handwriting lining the pages, “But I think it’s pretty safe to assume this is the journal he was lookin’ for.”

“Well, we can get a better look at it elsewhere. We need to make ourselves scarce.”

You nod, and you hand the journal over to Arthur to put into his satchel.

Together, you both sneak out of the office the way you came, making sure you didn’t see either Garrett or Francis as you head onto the street. To be safe, you slip onto the opposite side from the alleyways, coming out almost a block over instead of leaving in front of Francis’ office. You still make your trip back to the general store with haste, and you and Arthur saddle up just as quickly.

“We shouldn’t take the main road out,” Arthur tells you then, “Francis said his house was by the church, so we better not chance passin’ by. Just follow my lead.”

You nod, and you spur D’or to follow as Arthur takes you towards the docks.

As you ride behind him, people rush about, especially as you near the edge of Flat Iron Lake. About the docks, the workers rush, and one about runs into Arthur’s horse.

“Watch it!” he yells at the man, having to yank back on Boadicea’s reins.

The man offers a brief apology before scurrying off further, running towards the small building where other workers seem to gather. Both you and Arthur’s interest are peaked, especially when you happen to see Charles among them.

“Hold on,” Arthur tells you, and he guides Boadicea and you to the edge of the road, “Somethin’s goin’ on here...”

Charles has noticed you both, and he nods your way. He makes quick work of dismissing himself from the crowd, jogging up to you both and looking rather pressed.

“Charles,” Arthur greets the other man, “What’s got everyone so worked up?”

“It’s the ferry— it’s arriving ahead of schedule.”

At that, Arthur frowns, “How much earlier?”

“Tonight.”

The outlaw curses, shaking his head, “Of course it is...”

“I’ve been posin’ as a dock worker for a minute to get information for Dutch, and when I came in this mornin’, they just got a telegraph in from one of the nearby ports. I haven’t been able to get away since then so I don’t blow my cover.”

Grumbling, Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, “I’ll let him know...”

“Thank you, Arthur... Let him know that I’ll try and slip out whenever I can manage. If not, they can meet me at the hotel come nightfall.”

Arthur nods, and Charles nods to you both. And, as quickly as he came, the man turns and jogs back, joining the other workers who look as frayed as they are rushed.

Arthur then looks to you, “Come on, we need to get back to camp as soon as possible.”

“What about Garrett?”

“That’ll just have to wait. Or we’ll figure somethin’ else out,” Arthur moves Boadicea back out onto the road, getting her up to a canter as he heads to the curve in the road, “Right now, this ferry comin’ early is our business.”

You hum, not satisfied, but not willing to push further, either.

The two of you come out behind the houses lining the street, and you ride off into the plains behind it, heading further southward for a moment until turning west.

It isn’t until the town is out of sight that you get back onto the road again, and you spark up a conversation.

“This ferry robbery— what’s gonna happen afterward?”

Arthur glances at you from the corner of his eye, and he exhales before answering, “Well, figures if it goes well, we grab what money we have stashed away and we head westward. That’s been our goal all along. Think we was aimin’ for California, last Dutch spoke of it.”

“California?” you echo, “What’s out there that’s worth chasin’?”

“We don’t like the east. It’s too... civilized,” Arthur says the word with some distaste, as though the syllables of it were foul, “We planned on grabbin’ a plot of land for ourselves to settle down on out there, where there’s less society and more of just yourself to rely on.”

That gets a noise of surprise out of you, and Arthur eyes you for it.

“The Van Der Linde gang, settlin’ down? Now, I’ve heard it all, I think.”

“Laugh it up if you want, but that’s what we’ve been tryna do. Dutch almost bought us some land, a month or two back. It fell through for whatever reason, but we’ve been movin’ on with the intention since. I ain’t even sure if it’ll happen soon, though.”

You shake your head, “Dutch doesn’t seem like the one to settle.”

“He ain’t. Not really,” Arthur admits as you take your usual turn by Manzanita Post.

“What about you?” you ask, tilting your head, “Are you ready for the homestead life?”

Shrugging, Arthur answers you, a bit unsure, “Sometimes I think I’m not, and other times... It’s strange. But I can tell the world is changin’, Wolf. Things aren’t... they’re not like they used to be.”

“It’s the turn of the century,” you tell him.

“Nah, it ain’t really that, but... our way of life is dyin’,” he tells you, “We’ve been doin’ good for a moment now, and we’ve got good money, but I got a feelin’ it ain’t gonna last for too much longer. Not with people like Micah ridin’ with us... Feels like we’re just one moment away from trouble. And with this ferry robbery, I think it’ll be the last thing we need.”

You nod, understanding his reservations, “I get that feelin’ too... I’ve had a gut feelin’ that somethin’ has been meanin’ to go wrong for a while yet now.”

“Listen to it then. Usually serves ya right.”

“Have you told Dutch about this? About how it doesn’t feel right to you?”

Sighing, Arthur nods, “We all have. It don’t matter. He and Micah are obsessed with this damn ferry ever since Hosea and I heard about it. To the point where I wish I hadn’t mentioned it. We probably would’ve been gone by now, headin’ further west... But it’s too late to really imagine that sort of thing. Especially with this damn boat comin’ tonight. All we can do is hope that this job goes well, and we’re headin’ that way before mornin’.”

Taking the cut off of the road, you head towards camp.

Arthur wastes no time, all about jumping off of Boadicea and rushing in. You barely have time to hitch D’or and hop off yourself before rushing into camp after him.

By the time you catch up, you find Arthur already at Dutch’s tent, speaking to the man as the others gather around to hear what has to be said as you come up.

“—ran into Charles at the docks, he said the ferry is comin’ tonight.”

Dutch’s face falls, and Micah steps up then, butting into the conversation.

“The boys and I have been ready Dutch, we can still do this.”

“It ain’t a matter of if we're doing it, Micah, it’s when,” Dutch says, and he crosses his arms, placing his lit cigar over so that the hot ash doesn’t fall onto his sleeves, “I sure as hell wasn’t expectin’ to rob a ferry come sundown.”

“Charles is still in town, told me to let you know he’d try and get free when he could, or he’d meet you at the hotel once it gets dark,” Arthur says, “But Dutch, this changes a lot of things. We weren’t expectin’ this to come until a few days from now—”

Laughing, Micah cuts the outlaw off, “Just go ahead and say you’re a bit yellow ‘bout this, cowpoke.”

Arthur’s expression turns venomous as he looks to Micah, “I ain’t yellow. Never have been, never will be. I’m just bein’ honest here, and that there’s still some things that aren’t ready or in place because this _isn’t supposed to be happenin’ now._ ”

Micah sneers, “Why do you care? You’ve never liked this whole robbery idea anyways—”

“Because it’s foolish—”

“Enough!” Dutch’s voice booms over the two men, killing their words on their tongue and bringing all of the focus back to him as he steps between the two of them, “Whether we like this robbery or want it to be a few days from now, it is happenin’ tonight. Micah, you gather the boys and go ahead and start preparin’ a little way outside of town as we planned—”

“Dutch, please try and see this isn’t what we should be doin’—” Arthur tries, but the man ignores him as he goes forward, leaving Arthur to follow.

“—ahead and meet up with Charles, if you can. I’ll be there once I settle things with Arthur and the others.”

“Got it, boss,” Micah grins maniacally, and he looks to you now that Arthur has stepped away after Dutch, puffing his chest, “Say, it must be nice to finally see real men at work, isn’t it?”

“I’ll let you know when I see one,” you snap, earning a laugh from the snake.

“Oh, feisty! No wonder Arthur likes ya,” he bares those yellow teeth to you, and you try to keep the shiver of repulsion that threatens to shake you hidden away from his attention, “A bit of tongue never sacred me anyways—”

“Get lost, Micah,” you hiss.

He smirks, “I’ll be back soon enough. Try not to miss me.”

You refuse to look his way as he rides off, and you make it a point to go back to Arthur, who’s left stewing as Dutch walks away from him towards the horses hitched outside of camp.

You both watch as Dutch mounts onto his white horse, it rearing back before he thunders off the way the other men headed off in.

Arthur is quiet and stormy beside you, looking pained and pressed all the same. His fingers are lodged onto his belt buckle, and he presses his lips together in consideration as you eye him.

“What are we goin’ to do?”

“We gotta get packed up, is what. We can’t stay here.”

You frown, “You mean—”

“Get your things together. Put it in the girls’ wagon, and once you’re done, start workin’ on their stuff. Ms. Grimshaw!” Arthur shouts then, and he walks on, already ordering them around.

He’s efficient, gathering her and even Uncle to start packing the camp up.

You sigh, following Arthur’s instruction.

You hear his shouting throughout the camp as you rush to put your items together. You get your bedroll up, and you undo all the posts and ties and take them down into one neat pile. You’ve got pretty much everything put together when you stop at your bag.

You stare at it, knowing about the money inside, and Arthur’s words ring through your head...

If you’re going to leave, to pay off your debt and cut loose, now is the time. In fact, you see Strauss across the way, running and working on moving items from Dutch’s tent into one of the wagons with Pearson.

It would be so easy, walking up and handing him the money, leaving now before it all gets ugly. This will truly be your last chance for however long, knowing that as soon as you run with the gang, you won’t be able to stop until they do. Any person with an ounce of rationality and sense to them would’ve paid their dues and left a long time ago. . .

But your eyes come across the girls as they help pack up the tables into Pearson’s wagon, and you feel that second half of you awaken with a vengeance. Especially as your eyes drift over, and they land on Arthur as he lifts an entire barrel on his own, shouting to Swanson and Hosea to get everyone’s items together as quickly as possible as he heads over to the girls’ wagon.

You watch as he looks away from everyone, his face soured and his eyes weary.

And something in your heart gives.

You look back down at your bag, considering it for a moment longer, before strapping it over your shoulder.

You take it, walking up to Arthur and catching the man’s attention as you near.

“Wolf, what are you—” he starts.

You take your bag and toss it into the back, looking him dead in the eye.

“Come on, we got a lot to pack up.”

He offers you a tight smile, and together, you get to work.

You take a bit, and the sun begins to set by the time most of the tents are dismantled and placed up. There’s still Arthur’s to go, and John’s. You head over, catching Abigail as Arthur sends the others to start hooking the horses up to the wagons as you go to start on her tent.

“—you gotta take this!” she hisses as you come upon her, slowing to a near halt as you take in the scene before you, “It’s your medicine! It’s meant to make you feel better!”

Sitting from the end of the cot, Abigail holds out a spoonful of some liquid to Jack, who’s curled up into a corner on his bed, his face puffy and tear-stricken.

“It hurts my tummy!” he cries, looking pitiful.

“Jack Marston, if you don’t take this medicine right now—”

Before Abigail can finish her threat, Jack flies off of the bed, darting past his mother who cries out and attempts to grab him. He flees, quickly escaping the confines of the tent before he rushes over to you, hiding behind your legs and crying.

“Jack!” Abigail nearly jumps off of his bed, her eyes landing on you, “Ms. Broce, could you help me, please? He’s gotta take his medicine and he don’t wanna—”

“No!” Jack cries, and he pulls on your pants leg, “It only makes me feel worse!”

“Jack, I paid that doctor good money for this after he saw you! We even stayed in Blackwater for a few days till your father could buy it!”

At that, you tilt your head, “You went to Dr. Cole?”

Blinking, Abigail looks back to you, “Y-Yes... the boy was sick and he was the only one nearby. The one here in town up and died a month back and no one’s gone to replace him,” she huffs, “He was overpriced and cocky, but he gave me medicine, so I can’t quite complain... But apparently, my little boy can!”

“It makes me sick, mommy!” Jack caterwauls and he yanks your attention back down to him, “Every time I take it, I get sick!”

You pale, and a sudden question pops into your head.

“Abigail, can I see the bottle he gave you?”

“I already have it dosed—”

“Abigail. I _need_ to see the bottle.”

Abigail frowns but complies. It’s as she gives it to you that you hear someone come up from behind you.

“Wolf—"

Your stomach is resting by your feet, and you feel something in your chest constrict. Abigail stares at you like you’ve grown a second head, especially when you snatch the bottle out of her hand.

“Hey!”

Arthur comes up from beside you, putting a hand between you and Abigail as she pushes forward.

“Hey hey hey now, ain’t no need to start that!” he looks back to you, a bit angered, “Wolf, give her the medicine back. Now ain’t the time!”

You ignore him.

“When he takes this, does he throw up?”

The question has Abigail blanking for a second, before she answers, “Sometimes, yes... Is— why are you askin’?”

Your mind drifts back to the bottle you’d seen in Claudius’ bedroom, and the bottle that had been inside your own home.

A bottle made from the same dark, navy blue glass.

Your fingers clench on the neck of it, and your throat tightens just the same.

“Wolf?” Arthur asks.

“A-Arthur,” your voice wobbles, and tears begin to blur your vision, “I— he—”

Arthur comes forward, as gentle as he was the day he came across you. He stops by your side, voice quiet as tears run down your cheeks.

“Wolf, what’s wrong?”

You bite your lip, your sadness quickly turning to anger at your revelation. In fact, your anger builds into a rage, and you shove the bottle into your pocket, turning on your heel and stomping towards the exit of camp.

“Wolf!”

Arthur jogs to come up to your side, leaving Abigail to scream about the bottle held in your hand, but you care not to turn and face her. Not with more important things at hand.

“What are you doin’!?” Arthur hisses, trying to keep up with your brisk pace, “We gotta be packin’ up and gettin' ready to leave—”

You stop, turning and pinning the outlaw with your glare. He must see something of merit in it, because he becomes dead quiet, just as quick as he was to rise to a fuss, and his eyes widen at the state of you.

“This isn’t medicine,” you grit, your voice strained and ragged by the way your emotions fray at it, and it breaks, just like the bottle as you toss it angrily onto the ground, having the glass shatter, “Don’t you realize, Arthur?”

Glancing up from the bits of glass lying at your feet, he asks, “Realize what?”

“It was _never_ medicine,” you sob, and you don’t miss the way Arthur’s eyes narrow on you, “It wasn’t with Jack, with Claudius... with... with my father.”

The way Arthur’s face lights up with the realization you had, and then to darken with its implications is a sight to see. Especially when Arthur takes a step forward, his voice going low and quiet.

“That— that bastard poisoned your father?”

You nod, your tears already starting back up again, “He only had pneumonia... But... When he started takin’ the medicine Francis gave him, he only got worse... That’s when he started throwin’ up right before he died... And when we were at the plantation, I saw that same bottle there, and now—”

“The same one he gave to Jack,” Arthur growls.

“Francis said he killed Claudius, and my father, he—” you stop, but Arthur knows what you were going to say by the way his glare grows even more ominous, “Arthur, I gotta go find Francis, I gotta—”

“Wolf, as much as I‘d like to string the bastard, we can’t right now—”

“Arthur, he killed my father,” you growl at him, taking a step forward and making Arthur take one back in light of your ire, “He gave that same poison to Jack,” the outlaw’s eyes twitch at that, and you can tell it hits a nerve, “And you’re gonna tell me we ain’t goin’ after him?”

“Revenge is a luxury we can’t afford,” Arthur hisses, and he glances back at the camp, taking stock of it, obviously unsure.

“And I’m rather used to debt, as I’ve come to find,” you move towards the entrance of the camp, “Now are you comin’ or not? Because I’m leavin’ either way.”

After a few seconds and considering glances, Arthur curses, throwing his hands up into the air and coming back to your side.

“I think this is utterly foolish for a time like this,” he seethes lightly, “But I find a bit of comfort in knowin’ you ain’t the only fool doin’ this.”

“That’s a rather odd way of sayin’ you wanna make sure I don’t do this on my own,” you grumble, and you go over to D’or.

Arthur shakes his head, unhitching Boadicea, “I gotta make sure you don’t do anythin’ stupider than what you already are... First the ferry robbery, and now this...”

“If you’re givin’ me a lesson on morality, you best save it,” you huff, already spurring D’or forward and having Arthur follow in tow, “The only thing I care about right now is findin’ that bastard before we have to run out of here to somewhere else.”

You ride forth for a few minutes, until the first start of Flat Iron Lake’s shores come into view.

Along the horizon, the sun finally sinks down below its line, casting the world into the first blue tinges of night. Your eyes immediately trace the expanse of black water as it laps onto land, still and steady despite the commotion that boils within you.

You follow the line of it up until you see the first lights of Blackwater, and the telltale plumes of black smoke in the air.

“Shit... the ferry is already here,” you curse, and you spur D’or into a gallop.

Arthur paces Boadicea to match up, and he looks over to you, voice tight, “Then it won’t be long till they’re goin’ on there, more than likely with guns blazin’.”

And, at Arthur’s word, a shot rings out through the town.

Screams rip into the air as you near, with people running one way and with the law in the other.

“They’re such idiots!” you yell, and you only slow D’or down enough to work through the streets of the city, “I swear, not one damn lick of sense between any of ya!”

“You ain’t hearin’ no argument from me!” Arthur yells back.

You stop outside of Francis’ office, not even bothering to hitch D’or who shifts uneasily on her feet at the chaos erupting into the city around her. Arthur drops off of Boadicea too, looking just as grim as you push the door open, your rage as evident as the sounds of gunfire down near the docks.

The sounds of it all are only muffled as you enter Francis’ office, the small room lit by a few lanterns as you storm in. From across the room, Francis jolts upright.

One of his eyes is blackened and swollen, and his nose is without a doubt broken. His usually well-kept hair is in disarray, with pieces falling all about and clinging from sweat against his face. And his once pristine suit torn up, and the sleeves of his formerly white shirt stained red.

You stop dead in your tracks with Arthur by your side, your eyes training from Francis’ bloodied cuffs to the hunting knife held tightly in his fist.

“M-Ms. Broce...” he looks terrified, shaken and a shadow of his usual confidence, “You—”

“Francis,” you breathe, taking in the disarray and mess of his office from where he’d been tearing everything apart, “What— what have you done? . . .”

“What I had to!” he screams.

Your eyes look a bit further past him, the counter obscuring most of what is behind Francis. All except for a pale, lifeless hand, and the pool of crimson surrounding it.

“Shit,” you breathe, and Arthur’s breath hitches as he notices the same thing you did, “You killed him—”

“Of course I killed him! I killed him, and that bastard Claudius!” his eyes are red, and his cries rattle his voice, like the way his nerves cause the knife to tremble in his grip, “That plantation— he wanted it for the oil there, and he was trying to do anything to get it! They paid me, at first! And then he threatened to kill me, all over damn pieces of paper! So I took care of him before he could do anything more to me!”

You take a step forward, your hand held out uneasily, “Francis—”

“Don’t get any closer!” he roars, his eyes wild and inhuman from where he points his knife at you.

From behind you, you hear Arthur raise and ready his cattleman.

“I wouldn’t do that, partner,” he growls.

Francis’ eyes dart wildly between the two of you, looking as crazed as a captured animal.

“I— I had to do it,” Francis sobs, “He was— he was going to turn me in for murder... Tell them what I did to Claudius...”

You glare then, “And he should’ve anyways! You’re a piece of shit, sellin’ people what they think is medicine, but it’s just bottled poison!”

Francis’ eyes lock onto you, and he takes a step back, “That... I only did what I had to... It was never— never to _kill_ anyone—”

“And that makes it better anyhow?” you hiss, advancing on him, “You killed my father, you bastard! For all the money I ever paid you, the lengths that I went, and you gave my father the very thing that killed him—”

“Your father was dying whether I gave him that blasted bottle or not!” Francis seethes, “You dumb girl, you can never admit that, can you!? Your father wasn’t sick, he was dying, just as we all do! If anything, I did him a favor by ending his suffering when his daughter just wouldn’t let him _die—”_

Without thinking, you leap forward, crashing into Francis as Arthur yells out from across the room.

“You damned monster!” you scream, your hands ripping at Francis with all the fury you could manage into it.

Beneath you, Francis sputters, coughing blood and trying to rise to your attacks. You mostly hold him down, keeping him pinned as you attack him.

Arthur rushes forward, grabbing onto your shoulders and pulling you off of the pathetic excuse of the man below you.

“Wolf—”

A searing pain shoots up your thigh, and you let out a scream as your eyes dart to your leg, and to where Francis has sunk his knife down into you.

“You bastard!” Arthur snarls.

Before Arthur can do anything else, Francis yanks the knife from your leg, going to stab whatever he could hit next, the blade’s point aimed as he goes to sink it into flesh.

But it never gets the chance.

A loud crack of a gunshot sounds in the room, almost deafening.

Taking in the smoking barrel of the cattleman, Arthur’s broken exhale passes over his lips, hot and heavy.

“W-Wolf...”

Francis falls back to the floor, lifeless, leaving you aiming at nothing.

Your hand trembles and your breathing is rough, your finger still taught against the curve of the trigger as you lower your cattleman back to the holster at your side.

“Wolf, you—”

“We need to leave.”

You refuse to look down at Francis’ body, instead, your eyes training on a metal box he had opened on the counter.

“You just _shot_ him—”

“I know that, but if there’s one luxury we can’t afford, it’s time,” you hiss, trying to stand and failing.

Arthur immediately is at your aid, lifting you up at the singing agony that runs up your right leg. You suck in a breath, your attention still trained on the box.

“Grab it.”

Arthur glances to the box in question, and he looks back to you, “Why?”

“He was tearin’ this place apart tryin’ to find it. Must mean somethin’ if he was getting' ready to bolt after killin’ Garrett, and he stayed for this.”

“Wolf, you just said we don’t have time—”

You reach forward, hissing at the pain it causes you. You have it in your palm, and you look to him then.

“Think it’ll be easier to take with if you bag it up.”

Arthur sighs, and after a second, he grabs the box, shoving it into his satchel before leading you to the door.

You can tell the man feels a certain way about what has just happened, with the grim look on his face. But it will have to come later, once all of this is over.

Outside, there are still people fleeing and lawmen running around, and right as Arthur gets you onto D’or does one notice you.

“Wait, stop right there!”

Arthur curses, and he goes to hop onto Boadicea when the man raises his carbine, aiming and firing.

Thankfully, he misses Arthur.

But, to your horror, he doesn’t miss the mare at his side.

The shot rips into Boadicea’s neck, causing the mare to shriek as she collapses onto the ground.

“ _God dammit!”_ Arthur roars, his voice breaking as he turns his enraged attention to the lawman running towards you.

Without hesitancy, he aims his cattleman, level to the other man’s head, and fires.

You hold back bile as the bullet rips into the man, dropping him as instantly, and leaving his body motionless on the street.

“Arthur!”

You turn to the man, his face as torn up as you have ever seen it. His eyes are even glistening, looking as though he is holding back tears as he looks back down to Boadicea.

Below, the gray mare makes noises of pain, her eyes wide as blood runs out onto her coat, turning it almost black in the moonlight. She attempts to kick her feet out, but the movements are weak and sluggish, and your vision blurs with tears as you realize the mare is dying.

Despite the firefight taking place down the street, and with you both needing to make your escape now, Arthur drops down, his lips pressed into a thin line as he runs a hand through Boadicea’s hair.

“Oh girl, I’m so sorry,” he whispers to her, words as sweet as they are distraught.

Tearfully, you watch as Arthur takes his cattleman, bringing it up slowly until it’s pressed against Boadicea’s head. His hands waiver, and you can hear a slight hitch in his breath as he rolls the chamber over.

The mare below still struggles, but it’s weak, and slower now. She tries to raise her head, making a soft noise to Arthur as he pulls the reins out of her mouth. She lets go of the bit, and Arthur tosses it to the side, running a hand down her face, petting her softly as her light dims further.

D’or even calls to her, her ears flattened and her head lowering to try and comfort her, and it breaks your heart.

Especially when Arthur begins to pull the trigger.

“Thank you...”

You close your eyes, unable to watch further.

And when that damning shot rings out, you wince, openly breaking into sobs, your chest heaving with the weight of it.

It takes only a second, and soon, Arthur is coming up to D’or, jumping onto the back of the saddle and pulling you close to him as you cry. He is quiet and pained, and you can tell the man is in agony as he grabs onto D’or’s reins, and takes the lead.

From the other side of the road, more lawmen appear, but these look different. They’re not dressed in blue uniforms like most of them, they’re clad in black suits. They take notice of you both and the dead officer in the street.

“Pinkertons,” Arthur growls, “Of fuckin’ course—”

Before anything else can be said, a shot fires past you both, and D’or nearly rears as Arthur spurs her. She turns, her back legs pushing hard as she breaks into a gallop.

Each stride pulls at the stab wound on your leg, and you lean back into Arthur’s torso, gritting your teeth and trying to hold in your cries of agony.

“I know, I know,” Arthur soothes you, and you gasp at a particularly rough footfall, your head lolling on his shoulder, “We’re gonna get you back and fixed up soon, I promise.”

You grip rightly onto the sleeve of his shirt, hot tears running down your cheeks as he speeds on.

Even with the distance you gain, you can still hear the ongoing debacle back in town, and you curse the other men as Arthur spurs D’or away.

Worry clenches at your ribs, and you look at Arthur from where you rest your head on his shoulder.

“H-How are we going to get away—”

“Don’t fret over that now,” he tells you, voice purposefully even as he looks out to the road ahead, “I’ll get us outta this...”

You nod, hissing a bit and closing your eyes, your hand gripping on your leg above where Francis’ knife had sunk in deep.

You try to focus on ignoring the pain of your leg, and the way you can feel blood dripping down and pooling in your boot.

When you arrive back at camp, it’s Hosea that finds you both first.

“Arthur, what happened—”

“Too much to say right now, we ain’t got time,” he gets off of D’or, moving to grab you next, “We were in town when they went for that damn ferry. They’re firin’ guns off left and right... We barely made it out ourselves. And they got Boadicea.”

Arthur lifts you, and you cry out as Hosea comes to help. But Arthur waives him off, taking you in both arms to carry you into camp.

“We gotta leave _now,_ Hosea. I want those damned wagons on the road!”

Hosea walks briskly beside Arthur, looking to you and your state and looking pale and angry, “Never should’ve done this damned ferry...” he pushes past Arthur, going to Ms. Grimshaw, “Everyone, we’re leavin’ now!”

Arthur brings you over to the girls’ wagon and sets you down inside. In the lantern light, you can see the deep and wide gash in your leg, and your breathing quickens at the sight of it.

But the sound of ripping fabric brings you back, and you look over to where Arthur had ripped the sleeve off from his union shirt to start wrapping your leg. His muscled arm bunches as he works the fabric, and guilt pulls at you as much as the hurt stinging through your thigh.

“We’ll get it bandaged properly as soon we can,” he tells you, his words as even as his hands as he works the bit of fabric onto your leg, and when you hiss at the pain, he offers a tight smile, “I know, Wolf, but I gotta make it tight.”

“I-I know,” you stutter, and your knuckles are white from where you grip onto your pants leg from the pain.

Once he’s done, Arthur takes a step back, looking to you. He hands over his satchel to you, his movements rushed as the others run about behind you, cursing and yelling to one another.

“There’s some stuff in there that might help you,” he says, “Take whatever you need.”

“T-Thank you.”

He nods once, taking a step back, “I wish I could do more... But if you do need anythin’, or it gets worse, let one us know as soon as possible. Now, I gotta make sure we get out of this as I promised.”

He goes to leave, but you stop him, your hand gripping onto his wrist. His eyes focus on where you hold onto him before they dart back to you, his green irises wide as you swallow.

“Stay safe, please,” you murmur.

“I’ll try...” he smiles softly at you, and it does help a little of your nerves.

You breathe out, letting him go once you’re satisfied, “If you need, you can ride D’or... I doubt I’ll be doin’ that for a while yet.”

Nodding in acknowledgment to your words, he pivots, already running back into what’s left of the camp, “I’ll take good care of her, I promise.”

Of that, you have no doubt.

You watch from your sad position in the back of the wagon as the others force what’s left out up and together. You’re surprised at how quickly they manage it, but as the girls mount up into the wagon, yours being the last to leave, you can still see there is a lot being left behind.

“Oh my god, Ms. Broce, are you okay?”

You turn your attention to Tilly, who’s looking worried as she takes in the sight of the bloodied cloth wrapped around your thigh.

At her words, Karen and Mary-Beth rush forward, surrounding you as a particularly bad bump on the road out has you hissing.

“Y-Yeah, relatively,” you mutter, and you lean back, hating at the way it rushes to your head.

“Here, we can try and fix you up,” Mary-Beth states, coming beside you alongside Tilly, “Just breathe and try and relax.”

You fade in and out of consciousness, waking to sharp bits of pain, or to whatever commotion goes on outside. The girls thankfully manage to get your leg fixed up, and you look through Arthur’s satchel until you find a small bottle of tonic to down.

As it works its way through your system, you feel lighter and lighter as the gang rides on. Eventually, they come to a stop somewhere, and you look out of the back to see the man gathering together.

You see Arthur on D’or, and he’s yelling at Dutch. The other man is yelling right back, but your attention turns to the body that Charles carries up to the back of your wagon. Abigail tails after him with Jack hot on his heels.

“Davey got shot, Jenny didn’t make it,” he tells the girls as he places the man into the back, and he groans, his gut a mess of red and soaked bandages, “Do what you can.”

They nod, and Abigail hops in, and she ushers Jack into the back corner where Karen holds open her arms to him.

“Come on girls, we have work to do,” she says, and together, the three of them begin to try and save Davey.

You watch, fading in and out until you eventually give way to the fatigue that plagues you.

How long you’re unconscious for, you don’t know, but when you wake, there is a sharp nip to the air, and you shiver as you push your sore body more upright against the back of the wagon.

“W-What’s going on?” you ask.

Karen looks to you, fiddling with Jack’s hair as he sleeps against her, “We’re headin’ up into the mountains,” she says, her voice the deadest you have ever heard it, “Whoever’s chasin’ us, they blocked the route west, and we’re bein’ herded like sheep into the Grizzlies during a god damn blizzard no less... They say there’s going to be a day or two more of ridin’ on, yet.”

You frown, and you look over to the girls who look as downtrodden and grim as Karen. Between them all lies Davey, too quiet and still to be anything but dead.

The air in the cabin is as somber as it is cold, and you curl up on yourself, leaving your bad leg out as you huddle up for warmth.

Everything... it’s gone to hell.

You can hear Mary-Beth crying softly, and Tilly sheds her own tears as she comforts her. Across from them, Abigail wipes madly at her hands with a rag, never quite riding her skin of the crimson on them.

To your right, even Karen is reserved, looking like a ghost as Jack sleeps against her side, looking far too small and innocent for what is going on around him.

As the wagon pushes further, you feel the temperature drop lower than before, and your breath begins to cloud up in the air as the winds pick up outside the thin covering of canvas encasing the back. The girls find some blankets in one of the boxes lining the walls, and they pass them out, handing one to you.

You wrap yourself up gratefully, feeling the bite of the cold seep down to your bones already. It makes you feel even worse. And as your leg begins to ache, look to your bandages, realizing they need to be changed.

When the girls offer, you shoot them down, assuring them you can take care of yourself.

“We put the bandages in Arthur’s satchel,” Mary-Beth sniffles, pointing to the bag at your side.

You thank her and open the bag. When you do, you see the bandages first thing, and you snake your hands around them.

But when you pull them out, your eyes land on the metal box that you had snagged from Francis’ office, and you feel your curiosity grow the longer you look at it.

Setting the bandages aside for just a moment, you pull the box out, your eyes narrowing as you undo the clasp, and open it up on your lap.

Inside is a money clip, and your eyes widen at the amount held within it. Looking around, the other girls are too preoccupied or disinterested to pay attention to you, and so you bring it up just enough to look at it all.

As you do though, a piece of paper falls from it and lands back in the box. It’s folded, obscuring what ink you can see from where the top half flutters.

You grab onto it, your fingers delicately pinching onto the parchment to remove it as you set the money clip back in its place.

The cold makes your fingers tremble as you unfold the paper, and your eyes narrow at the message it carries.

 

_For your help with Havenwood Plantation._

_\- L. C._

 

It makes you frown, and you fold the paper back, returning it to the clip before you close the metal box.

If anything, your prying has only left with you more questions and very little answers. A part of you almost feels frustrated, and you go to put the box back into Arthur’s satchel when you notice something else.

There, almost buried at the bottom, is the journal you stole from Francis.

As you look up, taking in the stock of everything, you know that, with both your leg and the ride ahead, there will be nothing more for you to do than sit and wait until the gang finds somewhere else to settle.

And as you look back down, your eyes landing on the worn, leather cover of the journal in Arthur’s satchel, you wonder what harm would come in finally getting some damn answers.

And so, you begin digging. . .

 

**\---**

 

A soft symphony of leaves rustles overhead, the foliage caught in the breeze the passes through the valley. A few birds sing among them, resting on the branches before suddenly taking flight, their wings snapping as a creature bursts through the underbrush.

Rabbits and squirrels dart out of the way, climbing up the trees or ducking under their roots as the animal thunders through, weaving between the trunks.

It’s running for its life, being pursued by an animal that is just as intent on killing it as the animal is on living. The hunger it feels as it chases only grows, making its pursuit all the more dangerous. Not once does it lose speed, or does its intended prey get ahead. It keeps pace, following close enough to see the fear in its eyes as it leaps forward in an attempt to survive.

A flash of teeth — a sharp, wounded cry.

The wolf from the clearing takes the doe down, tackling its body into the forest floor with all the force it could put into the hit. Crying, the doe lifts its head from the floor, its hip between the wolf’s jaws as it kicks manically, trying to get away.

A growl escapes the enraged predator as it holds on, its fangs sunk deep into the flesh and muscle of the doe that struggles in its vice.

Life hangs in the balance, fragile and undetermined. A second more, and the wolf will be the victor — a grace of luck, and the doe will be a survivor.

It all shifts, inconclusive and undecided. The only certainty is the wolf’s canines digging deeper, a dark starvation glinting in its eyes as the deer flails on the floor, its cries echoing out until it is lost to the creaking of the trees.

It all comes down to this very moment. This very second...

Life, or death.

Predator, or prey.

And so is the true nature of the beast, and the poor creature at its whim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me or ask me questions at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://youtu.be/vHrZ6hIKcqM


	5. Chapter I — Colter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hosea throws his hands up into the air, “Just get gone, Dutch. Ain’t no point in talkin’ if my words are fallin’ on deaf ears.”
> 
> Dutch grimaces, but then looks to you.
> 
> You share a moment where you both look at one another, and you feel your skin crawl until he breaks the contact off, pulling the door shut roughly behind him.
> 
> Shuddering lightly, you turn back to the fire, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself.
> 
> “He’s a damn fool,” Hosea mutters, his scowl pulling at every worn line in his face, “First Blackwater, and now this...”
> 
> You press your lips together, and you stare at the fire absently.
> 
> “He’s going to get us all killed,” he hisses, standing up and pushing his chair as he goes towards his room, “Mark my words!”
> 
> You jolt at the sound of Hosea slamming the door to his room, and you huddle closer into yourself, your eyes focused on the dancing flames before you. They consume the logs of wood, and burn them down greedily till they are nothing more than ash and embers.

## CHAPTER I: COLTER

 

### TWO DAYS LATER. . .

 

A constant shrill sounds on the wind, ferocious and shrieking as it gusts over, blowing more and more snow into thick banks and accumulations on the world below. The frigidness that it harbors is one that sinks past flesh and down into bone, one that does not care for the hopes of flame and warmth.

Inside the futile cover of the wagon, your teeth chatter and your body shakes. Even with the deep and long gash in your right thigh, your body still attempts to tremble, leaving you as agonized as you are cold.

The girls are huddled around you, just as miserable and pained, as you try to keep warm together. Little Jack, who cries non-stop when he isn’t asleep, is curled into your side, his eyes as red as his stinging cheeks.

The ride into the Grizzlies has been one of misery, and misfortune. Despite the looming hell that Blackwater caused, the trek up into the heights of the mountains has proved treacherous and debilitating.

More often than not, the horses need to rest, or one of the wagons gets stuck into the thick snowbanks littering the few roads leading further into the obscured peaks ahead.

And now, come nightfall, with supplies running low and your body feeling as though you were already cold with death, you wonder just how much longer you all could make it.

The men are shouting outside, their voices almost entirely lost to the winds of the blizzard they are riding in. As your wagon pushes forward, you can make more out, coming closer to whoever is speaking.

“—a little ways ahead, not too far out. We can take shelter there.”

It’s Arthur, and your heart quickens a bit at the sound of his voice.

But, you also feel a bit of hope ignite within you at what he has said — shelter, actual to god _shelter._

It sounds like a foreign concept at this point. Practically anything good does.

“You hear that, Jackie?” Abigail whispers to her son, running her stiff fingers through his brown locks in an attempt at comfort, “We’ll be gettin' somewhere nice n’ warm soon. And when your daddy gets back, we’ll all snuggle up at the fire, and we’ll sing ya your favorite songs and read ya favorite stories. Does that sound good?”

Her southern drawl is edged with promise, and you feel your heart sink somewhat at the way Jack responds in kind, looking brighter and happier than he has in days when he perks and nods.

It makes something ache within you — to see a child in the midst of all of this. A boy as young as Jack, losing everything when he had almost nothing to begin with.

You aren’t sure how Abigail does it, appearing so cheerful for her boy when the wagon behind them carried the bodies of two of her friends, and when the road ahead was as uncertain as it was deadly. It must be an art, you think, to put up a face that nothing is wrong when your entire world is falling apart.

Jolting you out of your thoughts, the wagon comes to a stop, and you groan softly at the way it resonates up your leg.

Beside you, Mary-Beth shifts, sitting up and coming to a crouch as she tries to look out of the flapping canvas at the back of the wagon.

“Girls!” Hosea’s voice is barely audible over the blizzard as he appears at the rear of the wagon, a lantern in one hand while the other pulls the canvas back, “We’re here.”

“Thank the lord,” Karen mutters, sounding as bitter as she is drained, “One more god damn minute of ridin’ and I would’ve lost what little sanity I have left.”

Snorting humorlessly, Tilly bites back, “Amen...”

The girls line up to leave the wagon, with Abigail and Jack being the first to go. You stay at the back, holding onto your thigh and waiting until everyone else was out and Hosea comes into the wagon.

He coughs, looking worse for wear as he approaches, and your face screws up in concern when he leans down to pull you up.

You look out before you, taking note of the scattered array of abandoned cabins and other buildings being buried in the immense snowfall as Hosea lifts you, that cough never leaving him as he does so.

“You alright?”

“Ah, don’t you start worryin’ about me,” he tells you, putting your arm over his shoulder to begin leading you out, “With that leg of yours as it is, you’re in no position to do anythin’ but get better, dear girl...”

Saying nothing, you press your lips together and try not to dwell on it, lest you feel even worse about everything.

Hosea manages to get you onto the ground, and you try to hide the unease that comes over you at how deep the snow is. Your feet sink down at least a foot until you feel something more solid underneath your good foot, and you let out a breath at the idea of working through it all.

“Don’t worry, I got you...”

Together, you make the complicated trek towards what looks like a forlorn cabin of sorts some feet away.

Around you, Charles and the others rush about, carrying either supplies or tending to the horses as the storm rages on.

But your eyes drift to where you see two coats, one black, and one blue, and to the white sheets rustling in between. You realize that it’s Davey or Jenny that they are moving, and you are quick to glance away once those damning dots are connected.

“Not much further now,” Hosea assures you, and he pushes open the door to the cabin, and adjusting himself to help you inside.

Almost everyone else is here, gathered within the small room and the fire that is already roaring in the hearth. All of their faces look grim and pale, as though the reaper were mere moments from joining them here in this room.

Hosea settles you into a chair, bringing over a wooden box to place under your wounded leg to prop it upward. It draws a sharp hiss out of you, and the look of apology that Hosea sends your way has you biting your tongue to keep yourself quiet.

Just as the old man finishes getting you situated, the door opens again, bringing in another gust of snow and two battered souls with it.

You take in the sight of Dutch and his shifting eyes, noting the way he doesn’t look as confident as he usually is setting your already frayed nerves more on edge. His hair and jacket are coated in snow, thick and cloying as he steps forward into the room, leaving behind that familiar blue jacket from before as the person clad in it comes into the lantern light.

It’s Arthur, and when you notice him, his eyes move to you.

It’s the first time you’ve really seen him since you fled Blackwater, and he had placed you into the back of the wagon with promises that things were to get better.

Since then, he’s been like a ghost or hallucination, appearing in short blips like fractured fever dreams forming in the corner of your eye.

You can see the wear the past few days have been on him, and with the tired smile he sends your way, you don’t miss the dark, purple bags under his eyes, or the way the smile crumbles away when he turns his attention to Dutch as he addresses the room.

“Listen to me, all of you. Just for a moment.”

Everyone’s eyes shift to Dutch as he takes a step forward, bringing all of their attention onto him.

“We’ve had... well, a bad couple of days... I loved Davey. And Jenny...” the pause Dutch takes is heavy, and you let out a stilted breath before he goes on, “Sean, Mac— they may be okay, we don’t know.”

At the mention of Sean, you see Karen lift her head, and the way her expression crumbles speaks more than any words she could utter before she hides her face into her hands.

“But we lost some folk... Now, if I could throw myself down into the ground, in their stead,” Dutch points his finger at the gang, the clouds of his breaths illuminated in the orange lantern light beside him, “I would do it, gladly...”

It sounds sincere, but there’s a part of you, one that whispers darkly and sickly as you hear Karen and the girls start crying softly, that doubts him.

“Arthur and I, we’re gonna ride out. We’re gonna see if we can gather some food, or find anythin’ that can help us,” he looks over the entirety of the gang, holding out his hands, “Everyone, we are _safe_ now. There ain’t no one followin’ us through a storm like this one. And by the time they get here, well, we’re gonna be long gone... We’ve been through worse than this before.”

You bite your lip, trying to find hope from the words Dutch shares with you, but finding none coming from them. It feels like a fallacy, nothing but glorified promises.

Dutch looks to Pearson and Ms. Grimshaw then, his voice as much of an authority as it is booming in the small room of the cabin, “Pearson, Ms. Grimshaw, I need you to turn this place into a camp. We may be here for a few days. This is Colter, an old former mining town. It should see us fit till we leave.”

The two of them nod, and determination crosses over Ms. Grimshaw’s features, her grip tightening on the lantern she holds.

“Now, all of you. Get warm. Stay strong. Stay _with me,_ ” your stomach twists, and Dutch’s voice gains a dark undertone as he shouts, “We ain’t done yet!”

Now done with his speech, Dutch turns and addresses Arthur, and the two of them go to head out of the cabin as quickly as they came.

You track Arthur’s back as he leaves, and when the door shuts, you try to fight the unease that creeps up on you at that moment.

Grimshaw gets to work, immediately calling upon the girls and putting them to work, while Pearson lumbers towards the few supplies they have to begin his own endeavors. You watch as everyone else begins to disperse, leaving you and Hosea sitting at the chipped and old table in front of the fire.

“How’s your leg?” Hosea asks, turning his hands to the fire and rubbing them to try and gain more warmth, “I’m afraid I haven’t had much of a chance to check on you the past few days...”

“It’s— it could be better,” you admit, and you rub at the top of your thigh to distract yourself from the ache of your wound, “And don’t blame yourself for that. These past few days have been hell for all of us.”

Hosea nods absently, staring into the flames for a moment in consideration of your words before he turns to you, his eyes going down to the soiled bandages wrapped around your thigh.

“How did it happen?”

“Knife,” you say evenly, but something in your chest tightens at the memory, “Think I would’ve enjoyed bein’ shot over this.”

Hosea chuckles, but it dies shortly thereafter, “You know, Arthur didn’t get to tell me what happened, when you two ran off doin’ god knows what...”

“It was... it was foolish,” you say, looking back now and feeling some amount of regret, “But I was too angry at the time to realize that... Arthur tried to tell me, but I ignored him and went anyways... It was about my father, the doctor that helped him... Turns out he— he—” you quiet for a moment, “He killed my father... I left to get even, and this is what it got me.”

At your words, Hosea quiets. He grimaces softly, and faces back towards the flames, his mind elsewhere for a moment.

“Revenge,” Hosea murmurs, folding his fingers together as he sighs, “It’s an odd thing, isn’t it?”

Frowning, you look to the older man, “What do you mean?”

“You crave it. Seek it. You were wronged, and you want to hurt the other person as much as they hurt you,” Hosea regards you, tilting his head, “And this doctor, I’m supposing you did get even?”

Flashes of Francis’ face cross your mind. His expression of terror, the sound of your revolver thunderous and damning.

The way he fell to the floor, lifeless.

The way the trigger felt against your finger after you pulled it.

“I— . . .” you swallow thickly, “I did.”

Hosea looks down the bridge of his nose at you, eyes calculating, not needing for you to explain the context behind those two words as he crosses his fingers together.

“And do you feel better for it?”

For the first time since that fateful night in Blackwater, you think about what happened.

The way Francis looked completely insane, covered in blood and at the end of his rope, with Garrett Matthews growing cold, slaughtered by his own hand.

How you had been so furious, blinded by your rage to the point that you rushed into Blackwater during the raid on the ferry. That the town was thrown into utter chaos with Arthur hot on your tail.

None of that. None of it had mattered enough to stop you.

You were just so... so angry, so _furious_ that Francis had played you. Used you.

And to make matters even worse, that it didn’t just cost everything you owned and more for months on end, or that you took on a debt with the gang to make up for the loss.

But for the simple realization that it cost your father his life.

Your trust had been just as blind as your pained rage, and just as disastrous.

It had ended with Francis dead on the floor in his office, bleeding out onto the wood below from a bullet _you_ put in him.

You think about your rage, the desire to ruin Francis the way that he had you— to meet his betrayal and treachery with cold steel and gunpowder.

About how it feels... hollow, afterward.

“I’m... I’m not sure how I feel,” you whisper, unsure as you are unsettled.

Nodding, Hosea relents, leaning back in his chair, muffling his cough before speaking roughly, “Just— don’t lose your head like that often... Though, I doubt you will... We just can’t afford anythin’ like what happened in Blackwater again. I don’t want anythin’ like Blackwater happenin’ again,” his voice is gilded with a tone of an upset as he stands, looking down to you, “But... for what it’s worth, I don’t exactly blame you for what you did... I’m sorry about your father.”

You nod, biting your lip as tears threaten to spill over at the rawness of it all.

As Hosea passes you, he gives you a light pat on your shoulder, and you place your hand over his for a moment before letting it go.

The old man leaves you at the table, with nothing more than your thoughts and the fire to keep you company.

 

 

**\---**

_December 5th, 1862_

_A storm of the ages came through last night. Lightening and strong-winded downpours wrecked the land, uprooting trees and causing landslides in some areas. The Upper Montana River is swollen from all of the rainfall to the point where I was almost unable to cross it._

_I usually do not venture forth in those parts, further out into the Heartlands that lie west. But a boy came to me, with the sun barely breaking out over the mountains. He was no older than thirteen, I reckon, a stable boy, scared and soaked from the stubborn rain that refuses to leave even as I write this down._

_He was coming on behalf of Claudius Whittmore, his employer, and owner of the Havenwood Plantation a few miles out from Blackwater. Apparently, his wife had been attacked, and he sought my medical prowess to address her in her poor, unfortunate state._

_I had to leave come nightfall when the world and myself were cast in shadow, to see her. Claudius was adamant that I not be seen, and took the precaution of allowing me entrance into his estate from the back end._

_His wife, Bernadette, was in bad shape. The assault committed against her was violent. Calculated. The man who attacked her, which remains suspiciously anonymous at this moment, brandished a knife against her to have her at his whim._

_She had cuts across her body, which I tended to or stitched up as needed. But that was not all of her grievances._

_Something more heinous was done to this soul, something wretched and twisted. Only a monster falsely calling himself man would go forth with what was done to Mrs. Whittmore._

_My heart aches for the wounds in which I cannot help heal._

_December 7th, 1862_

_A body lies in my office. One belonging to Eli Bourbaki._

_It is evident to a man without a notion for medical sciences that he was murdered, a bullet lodged clean between his dulled eyes._

_He was found by the river by a passerby, right outside of town. He worked for Claudius, was even a family friend._

_Strange, why he was all the way out here._

_And stranger still that the Whittmores do not seem to be in mourning._

_December 12th, 1862_

_They buried Eli today. At the church, in front of town._

_The Whittmores did not attend._

_Neither did his son, Nicholas._

_January 16th, 1863_

_In the dead of night, I was called upon again by Claudius Whittmore._

_He came for me, personally, looking as crazed as he was the night I came to tend to his wife. She has healed, mostly, from when she was attacked. But there is something else. Something more._

_The bastard. She’s expecting because of him._

_Despite the fading of her bruises, I can see how Beatrice is affected. She appears almost like a ghost, pale and scared. They did not report her attack to the sheriff, or two any man of law, for that matter. It is evident that she only wishes to be disillusioned with what happened to her._

_This has only set her back. Has given her another trauma in which I can offer no remedy or aid._

_The family wishes for me to stay in contact, as they intend for me to be the physician she sees until the infant takes its first breath into this world._

_I will help them in what ways I can, to make amends for the ways that I cannot._

 

 

**\---**

Her name is Sadie Adler.

A newly made widow, found by Dutch, Micah, and Arthur the night prior.

Her cries have been a chorus to the sound of the blizzard outside, and it has only soured the air in the camp further. Her blonde hair was knotted and as wild as the vacant look in her eyes, and despite the evident and shattering heartbreak that ails her to the point of weeping, you can see the familiar fire that burns within her.

Your heart aches for Sadie, as her husband was apparently murdered by the O’Driscolls found holed up in her cabin, one of which who ratted out where they were camping. It meant nothing good, especially with the way Dutch came back, ranting and raving about a man named Colm.

The way Hosea had looked crestfallen at the apparent presence of the man only hinted at more misfortunes to come, these also of Dutch’s own design.

It was evident, with the way that Hosea dug at the man, that things were not good between the two of them. Despite his sickness and the coughs that plagued him, Hosea was furious with Dutch. You often overheard arguments between the two of them as you rested in the main cabin. The way Hosea laid into Dutch, scolded him and berated him for his apparent mistake and missteps.

But Dutch, oh, did he ever play off his silver tongue. Because Dutch, for a lack of a better word, was resigned. It was obvious that whatever had happened on the ferry in Blackwater was not ideal, and he did not speak of it much, despite the way that Hosea pried in desperation for any sort of explanation.

Poor Hosea only demanded answers from the man — wanting to know why they were on the run, why there was no money to be seen, and why the whole entire thing went to shit as it did. But Dutch only ever met his questions with purposeful silence or verbal dancing. Pirouettes of half-hearted assurances and promises for future admission, only to never be realized or committed. The man of so many words, left speechless or dumbfounded by his own idiocy and lack.

Hosea often left these attempts at discussion frustrated, and he often joined you by the fire, appearing as hot as the smoldering wood glowing red and white hot in the hearth. Their relationship was growing as threadbare as the aged rug withering beneath your old shoes. And with the way his patience also thins, you’re positive the older man could set them aflame from his ire alone if they were to go out.

You knew not to push, not to truly ask about the growing difference between Hosea and Dutch. Like your leg, it was no wound to pick at, but you did your best to let Hosea know that you cared.

The older man often would simmer down when you asked if he were alright, or if you tried to see if his cough was doing better. Your concern was enough to end his boiling, and you were always able to bring him back to the chipper man you knew him to be.

But, there was only so much that you were capable of. Only so much you could do, despite your leg holing you up, and with the way you only wanted to try and alleviate the growing tensions where you could.

Because, of all the things that needed to happen, John was missing.

Abigail was distraught, running to Dutch and informing the man that John wasn’t to be seen, and hadn’t been since around the time they had arrived here in Colter. The way her voice broke with worry, and with how Jack cried at her side, it didn’t bode well.

And despite Arthur having only gotten a few hours of rest, the first you think he’s gotten since before the ferry robbery in Blackwater, he was sent out alongside Javier to try and find him.

It left you in worry alongside Abigail, and you waited for him till he returned.

And when he did, things... things were not good.

John... he was in bad shape. Gashes littered his face, and you could see the bandages on his shoulders soaked red, a gunshot wound gained during the onslaught in Blackwater.

When Javier brought him in on his horse with Arthur tailing behind, the relieved cries that Abigail let out were heard throughout camp. Cries that quickly turned into tear-filled curses at John’s battered body while Charles and Lenny carried him into one of the few cabins still left standing.

With the state he’s in, it was honestly a wonder the man was still alive.

But your focus was soon turned on Arthur, who walked away from the small congregation upon John’s return, and he headed into the main cabin where he was also staying. Your room was across from his, but despite this, he rarely used it. Apart from a few hours rest, the man has never had a moment to himself, and you can tell by the way he stumbles up to you.

Dutch is no better, for they both haven’t slept in days, and you look between them out of concern.

“Wolf,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and heavy, almost drunk with sleep now that the adrenaline was wearing off.

Your leg was a bit better, and Charles, despite his injured hand, had crafted you a crutch of sorts. It was enough to get you hobbling around, and you were grateful for its existence as you guided Arthur back to his bed.

When you get into his room, you force his heavy winter coat off, the fabric now damp from the snow that is now melting onto it. In the dim lantern light, you can see that Arthur is unsteady of his feet, swaying lightly and making a face at the way he struggles to stay awake.

Clicking your tongue, you push him gently by his chest until he moves, scowling lightly.

“I should be helpin’ you,” he grumbles, collapsing onto the bed in his room and his eyes already drifting closed.

Adjusting your footing, you watch as the man’s eyes flutter closed, the pinch between his eyes loosening up as his lips part with a soft breath.

He looks so innocent at this moment, falling asleep, and your heart clenches.

“You have been,” you whisper.

But the man is already asleep before he can hear it.

As he sleeps, you take off his boots and his hat, setting both on the dresser across from his bed before grabbing the blanket that’s laid across there. With the cold that seeps into the room, you know the man will need it, and so you drape it across him and making sure he’s covered where it counts.

He shifts a bit in his sleep, his face going slack and looking the most at peace as you have ever seen him.

You force yourself to leave, and you make sure to close his door before turning out to the main room of the cabin.

“Tuck him in, did you?”

You jump a bit, seeing Hosea smirking from under the brim of his blue hat, spectating from his chair in front of the fireplace.

Blinking, you try to not think about the blush burning at your cheeks, and you grip onto your crutch, coming forward until you drop into the chair beside him with a small groan.

“He was practically asleep on his feet,” you say with some defense.

Holding his hands up in mock surrender, Hosea’s smirk widens, “I’m not judging, dear girl. Simply takin’ note of things...” you grimace at his words, but he turns to you, softly adding, “There’s no shame in it, Ms. Broce. It’s... It’s been a long time since someone has cared for him like that. And he needs it now more than ever.”

You hide your face away at those words, not wanting Hosea to see the expression that plays on your features at what he tells you. Instead, you mutter a reply to the man as you rub at your sore leg.

“He should be takin’ better care of himself. He ain’t invincible.”

Hosea hums, “I think Arthur knows that better than anyone. He is just too selfless to allow himself those moments of vulnerability. Of need. That boy has always put others before himself, and it’s cost him a great deal.”

Looking towards his door, your frown deepens.

How much did you cost Arthur?

But before you can think on it for long, you feel Hosea’s hand on your shoulder.

“I’ll make sure no one costs him the sleep he needs,” Hosea informs you gingerly, and you look back to him.

“Thank you...” you murmur, and you stand, going towards your own room.

As you go to shut your own door, your leg aching and in need of attention, before you turned in for the night, Hosea regards you one last time. His eyes are narrowed softly on you, seeing something more in the sight of you than what meets the eye. What he is able to envision, you don’t know, but there is something that causes his lips to pull into a slight smile.

“For what you do for Arthur, I should be thankin’ you.”

You’re uncertain of what to say, but it doesn’t offend the older man. He only nods to you, turning back towards the fire, beginning to hum a song, the tune sweet and soft.

You hang your head and shut your door without another word passing between the two of you.

 

 

**\---**

He sleeps for an entire day.

It doesn’t surprise you. Not in the slightest. With the way he’s been run ragged the past few days, with the gang having to flee Blackwater, and having to go off and save John on top of it all.

While you waited for Arthur to wake, you go to visit the poor bastard, who’s lying on his cot, bandaged and looking sorry for himself. In a surprising act of kindness that you didn’t expect from him, Reverend Swanson offers some of his morphine to John, keeping the man somewhat sane in all the agony he’s under. His face is a bloody mess, and his mind in a fog as he looks to you.

“He saved my life,” he rasped, a bit shaky as he retells the night he spent almost freezing and being mauled to death on that mountain, “After all the hell I gave him... He— he came to save me.”

You had set your hand down onto John’s in reassurance, and when he caught the sight of your leg and its own sorry state, he cursed, shaking his head.

“I— 'm sorry... for the way I treated you when you first came to camp... It wasn’t right, and it sure weren’t fair to Arthur, neither... You— you’ve done a lot for us... Abigail, she told me what you did for my boy, Jack. That the medicine we got him made him sick... That you and Arthur took care of the man who did that to my son,” he looked to you then, his consciousness fighting through the haze of pain and morphine, “I owe you both a great deal more than I could ever repay.”

You had smiled at him, squeezing his hand lightly and shaking your head, “An apology for what you said is more than enough for me, John.”

He had snorted, looking away towards the wall, humored at your response.

“What?”

“Nothin’, just—” he turned his eyes back to you, appraising you, “I can see why you mean a great deal to him.”

You had no idea as to what you could respond with, so you only nodded, going back to tending to his wounds.

Most of your day is spent sitting idly, watching the rest of the gang suffer miserably. The wound on your leg has made you essentially useless, and as you hobble around, try and help in what ways you can.

Helping Pearson with some of the cooking, you manage to prepare dinner. Accompanying Charles, you help tend to the horses. With the girls, you help create a wreath to go on Jenny and Davey’s graves. Beside Hosea, you grind various herbs to help with his and Jack’s cough.

They all appreciate whatever you manage, knowing that with the state your leg is in, it’s hard for you to even get from cabin to cabin. But you do it, your stubborn nature not stopping you in light of the deep gash aching along your thigh, or for the deep snow that comes up to the middle of your calves. You just couldn’t sit around and do nothing — that was never an option for you.

Especially when it means you are to suffer Dutch’s verbal lament of Colm O’Driscoll. You’d never want to lie around just to hear that.

And that doesn’t change come the following morning, with your leg still as sore as can be, and your determination just as callous. You hobble up on out of bed, moving towards the door to your room only to have it open up on you.

Blinking, Arthur looks to you, a bit surprised to find you awake despite it being a few hours before it was truly morning.

“Wolf,” he looks down to your leg, his brow furrowing as he takes in the sight of the old bandages, “You need to be asleep.”

“Can’t. Not really,” you say, and you adjust your weight on your crutch, not missing the way Arthur’s face falls a bit when he takes stock of it, “’Sides, if you want me restin’, why are you comin’ into my room, anyway?”

He frowns, rubbing sheepishly at the back of his neck and past the plush collar of his thick coat, “Just... wanted to check on you, is all.”

You part your lips softly as your cheeks heat, and you look down towards your feet, “Well... I’m fine...”

“You’re still hurt.”

Glancing back up, you find him sadly eyeing the bandages lining your thigh.

“Hey, I’m alright,” you tell him, but that scowl doesn’t leave his face, “I might be on the mend for a minute, but I’ll make it back.”

He hums, rubbing at his chin before stepping into your room, “Well, let’s make sure you do.”

“Listen, I can—”

“Let me do this, Wolf. It’s... I owe you this.”

Before you can ask what he means by that, the outlaw guides you by the shoulders and sits you back down on the bed. You settle back onto the mattress softly, it bowing under your weight as Arthur goes to where all your supplies are laid out on his nightstand.

“I haven’t gotten to talk to ya much since Blackwater,” he says, grabbing onto a clean roll of bandages before glancing at you from the corner of your eye.

“There was a lot goin’ on,” you murmur, setting your crutch beside you on the bed, “I don’t even want to know how crazy everythin’ was.”

“It was a bit... But it ain’t beyond anythin’ I haven’t handled before,” coming over to you, he leans down onto one knee, and starts to unwrap the soiled bandages from your thigh, “This might sting a little...”

You wince as it pulls a bit on your wound, and you sink your fingers into the blankets lining your bed. Arthur sends an apologetic look to you, but he goes as slowly and cautiously as possible, peeling back the crimson bandages to reveal the cut made into the pants you were wearing.

“You— you say that like you’ve been through worse,” you hiss as he removes the last of the ruined cloth, “Is there really much worse than this?”

“It can be. Trust me.”

He says it so darkly that you swallow, moving your hand to cup the top of your thigh in an attempt to distract you from the sting as Arthur goes to clean your wound.

It’s deep, still looking angry and raw, but for the most part, the bleeding has subsided, and Grimshaw got you nice and stitched up once she was able to find her tools in the wagons. It’s going to scar, you already know, a nasty, ugly reminder of what happened.

As if you needed one.

But the way Arthur goes about it, so gentle, so light, it has you feeling... something.

The way he softly wipes about your skin, removing old blood and cleaning the wound with as much precision as he can manage despite the cold stiffening his fingers and making the water he uses just as frigid. It numbs your skin though, just enough to where you don’t jerk away in pain when Arthur goes to clean up Grimshaw’s work.

But it’s his expression, really, that gets you. The way his eyes are dulled, his lips ticked downward. The slight crease to his forehead from the promise of a crestfallen grimace. It’s then that it clicks — him speaking of owing you.

It all speaks of guilt. A pang of guilt that he needn’t carry.

“Arthur...”

Glancing up at you, he stops for a moment, the pink rag in his hand stilling as his attention shifts to you.

A bit of concern edges his voice, and he pulls back just a little, “Am I hurtin’ you?”

Your chest clenches lightly, and you work your lip between your teeth as you shake your head. Confusion falls over his features then, and he sets the rag back down into the bowl below.

“No, no... Just... I wanted to talk to you. About that night in Blackwater.”

The way that Arthur’s eyes darken a bit at the memory of that night has your breath stalling in your lungs, and it doesn’t help when Arthur looks away, going to clean up your wound again.

He goes to the roll of bandages, wrapping your thigh back up.

“Figure there’s not much to say about it. Things happened, now we move on.”

Fighting the urge to roll your eyes, you press on, “Arthur, just listen to me.”

When he doesn’t look back up, you move your hand down, grabbing lightly onto his wrist. He doesn’t fight or pull back when you know he damn well could, but instead, he finishes wrapping your thigh before placing the bandages back onto the bed, and his hand tightens into a fist.

“None of what happened was your fault.”

The look of utter depreciation on Arthur’s face leaves a sour taste in your mouth, and you grip onto his wrist just a little tighter.

“You tried to tell me it was a fool’s errand, runnin’ after Francis like that... Luxury is what you called it. I— I didn’t listen. I pushed for it. I see that now, when I went to try and hurt Francis, you only ever tried to keep me from hurtin’ myself.”

“And a good job I did of that one,” he mutters lowly.

You frown, and you bring Arthur’s hand up to your lap. He watches you cautiously, especially as you look to the scabs on his hands, from where his skin has cracked and hasn’t had a chance to heal.

“We all get hurt at some point,” you whisper, and you move over to the nightstand, grabbing the salve that Hosea had fixed up for you and opening it, working it onto Arthur’s split skin as he watches you with widened eyes, “This world, it ain’t meant to coddle ya. And some of the people ain’t meant to love ya either.”

You work a good bit onto his hand, massaging it into the abused flesh of his palm before you reach for the bandages lying on the bed beside you.

You begin wrapping his hand, your lip trembling some, “I was just hurt, Arthur. By Francis. Before I even confronted him... He killed my father, and I— I wanted to...” your voice breaks lightly, “I wanted to kill him, for what he did... and I shot him dead.”

You set Arthur’s hand back down, and to your surprise, you find it coming up to your cheek as the first tears fall, his blue eyes staying on you as you look to him.

“Is— is this what it always f-feels like?” you shake.

Arthur brushes a thumb across your cheek before his hand falls away, and he stands, moving to where he can sit beside you on the bed.

“It... it feels different. It depends on the person,” he says quietly, and you’re relieved to hear no judgment or condescending undertone to his words, “Sometimes, it feels good. Righteous. I ain’t a saint, and I ain’t above sayin’ that there are some people in this world that get what’s comin’ to ‘em through you... But others... It just depends.”

You sniff, wiping at your face with a shaking hand.

“He deserved it. I know he did. For what he did to me, Claudius, Jack— and to everyone else I’m sure he sold that poison to... But I don’t... It doesn’t...”

“Killin’ never feels right the first time it happens,” Arthur tells you, his voice soft in your ear— the way he talks of this comes from a place of personal understanding, of experience, and it only makes your heart sink that much further, “We’re taught when we’re young that it’s awful. A sin. But this world, the way it is now, even with as much as it’s changin’, killin’ is the only way you can live at times. You have those who seek it, those who fight against it, and the others that only try to survive.”

You look to him, your vision blurry and your head a mess, “And what am I?”

The wind howls outside, and the light crackle of the fire some feet away exists within the small space between the two of you.

Arthur, he looks pained for a moment, that your misery bleeds over into him in a way he knows all too well. This empathy, this connection. It deepens something between you two, and you can tell with the way that Arthur views you just a little differently as he answers.

“What you always have been,” he murmurs, “Just someone tryna survive.”

You wipe at your eyes, swallowing thickly at Arthur’s words.

A survivor. That’s how he viewed you? After everything?

“I’m not sure how you can look at me and say that,” you mutter, your eyes stinging from where you hold back your tears, “Not after all I put you through...”

“Because it’s true,” you feel a finger brush against the edge of your jaw, and you follow its lead as Arthur turns you to face him, “I’d never lie to you about somethin’ like that.”

You frown, and your hands clench up into fists.

“Well, you tell the truth, and I act like a fool despite all that you tried to keep that from happenin’,” you breathe out harshly, “I— I wanted to also say I was sorry... If... If I hadn’t made us go... All of this...” Arthur tilts his head lightly at you as you force it out, “I’m sorry about Boadicea...”

The mention of his poor mare has him closing up some, and the pain of it is as evident as that night, with his gun was pointing down to her head with his finger pulling the trigger.

You know it’s part of why that night in Blackwater hangs so heavily and hideously onto your conscience— chained to you and dragging you further into regret.

And his reaction only furthers the descent, with the way you can see his eyes grow red, and a cloud come over him like the storm raging on outside.

You have to look away, feeling worse and worse.

“That’s— none of that was your doin’,” he murmurs, his voice gruff but honest, “Don’t blame yourself for things that ain’t your fault.”

“Then don’t blame yourself either,” you counter, your voice raw as you meet his gaze head on as he moves it to you, “I got myself into that mess, you just got us out as you promised... It’s— it’s like you said. What happened is done, we just... need to move on.”

He looks away but nods just the same.

When he speaks, he’s quiet, his fingers digging into his palm, “Okay...”

You look down to his hand, and in a moment of brashness, you reach back out. You grab ahold of it, squeezing onto it as you lean over. Arthur doesn’t react, at least, not until he feels your head against his shoulder from where you lean against him.

He stills, turning as stiff as a stone as you lay against him. Wordless and unconditional. An offer of support, a show of compassion. The promise to stick to his side as you both attempt to heal.

You’re not sure how he feels about it, how he feels about any of this. How he feels about you.

That is until he looks down to your hand, laces his icy fingers through yours, and with as much promise as you offer to him, he squeezes back.

 

 

**\---**

The days have continued to pass by much like the storm, stubborn and slow.

You feel utterly restless, always shifting and looking out of the windows to the thick flurries of white that show no sign of relenting soon. It brings only a feeling of dread, a hopelessness that, the only way you’d escape this mountain is if you died on it.

Especially with the way Dutch has sunk into this idea of an attack on the O’Driscolls.

You’re not sure why, but he’s insistent, ignoring Hosea’s pleads and even Arthur’s attempts at reasoning as he plots out an attack on this supposed O’Driscoll camp. It is honestly the last thing you all need to be dealing with, but you can’t argue with Dutch. Not when he has his mind made up, and not when he didn’t want your opinion in the first place.

Staying in the same cabin as him, it’s only made this time in Colter worse. Because when Dutch isn’t going over possibilities like a child dreaming of gold rushes, he tends to try and focus himself elsewhere.

You’ve thankfully managed to avoid him from the most part, either relocating yourself or sticking to your room. But when you are out and cross paths, he still eyes you as he did back in Blackwater. Mostly.

This time, there’s something else there, a curiosity that hasn’t waned, but instead morphed and grown into something much different as you always notice his stare. He still makes your skin crawl, but in a cabin as tiny as this with either Arthur or Hosea always present, you know the man wouldn’t attempt anything, lest he is crucified by either man.

It still doesn’t bode well, and you hate how you know that things won’t get better when he looks to Arthur with just as much intrigue.

So when he pulls Arthur aside, taking him into his room to discuss business beyond your privy, you eye the door to his room, feeling nothing but contempt and an ominous feeling sinking down into your gut before it opens once more.

When Arthur finally emerges, you know something has happened. With the look on his face, there’s no denying it. He storms past you and Hosea without a word, ripping open the cabin door just to slam it shut, and it causes Hosea to sigh as he looks towards the ceiling out of silent prayer.

Before you can ask what is going on, Dutch comes out into the room, donning on his thick, black coat and scarf before turning to Hosea.

“We’re gonna hit those damn O’Driscolls,” he tells Hosea, and the older man frowns as soon as he says it, “Oh, don’t give me that look. We need supplies. And knowing Colm, he’s definitely got more than enough to go around.”

“I can’t deny we’re worse off, but we shouldn’t be doin’ things like this, Dutch,” Hosea warns as the man rolls his eyes with a scoff, and heads towards the door, “We’re barely up on our feet as it is. You think a gang feud like yours with Colm is what we need right now?”

“What we need is food, and faith,” Dutch glowers, and he opens the door, the wind screeching past as snow begins to invite itself into the cabin, “And I intend to get us what we need.”

Hosea throws his hands up into the air, “Just get gone, Dutch. Ain’t no point in talkin’ if my words are fallin’ on deaf ears.”

Dutch grimaces, but then looks to you.

You share a moment where you both look at one another, and you feel your skin crawl until he breaks the contact off, pulling the door shut roughly behind him.

Shuddering lightly, you turn back to the fire, wrapping your blanket tighter around yourself.

“He’s a damn fool,” Hosea mutters, his scowl pulling at every worn line in his face, “First Blackwater, and now this...”

You press your lips together, and you stare at the fire absently.

“He’s going to get us all killed,” he hisses, standing up and pushing his chair as he goes towards his room, “Mark my words!”

You jolt at the sound of Hosea slamming the door to his room, and you huddle closer into yourself, your eyes focused on the dancing flames before you. They consume the logs of wood, and burn them down greedily till they are nothing more than ash and embers.

 

 

**\---**

_October 16th, 1863_

_Bernadette gave birth to a healthy girl._

_Emily is her name._

_Her hair is as black as night, just like Nicholas’. There is no doubt now that Eli was her father and not Claudius._

_But, the man I have come to know and trust in these past nine months has no intention of treating her as anything but his daughter. They’ve even adopted Nicholas, taking him in despite the atrocity his father committed against Bernadette._

_The amount of kindness their hearts hold. . ._

_If only there were more people like them in this world._

 

 

**\---**

They are gone for hours.

The day grows dark, and the storm dangerous. The wind has picked up, growing as sharp as glass and as loud as a train, rolling through and only making your worry grow alongside it.

Hosea wasn’t in a particularly good mood either, still soured from earlier because of Dutch, but he softens when he sees how you sit by the fire, your good leg bouncing with unease as you twiddled the strings of your blanket in your fingers.

He promised that things would be alright, but with the growing intensity of the storm and the anxiety plaguing you, it didn’t help much.

And it didn’t help, when the others rode up after Dutch, and Arthur wasn’t in sight.

You had rushed out of the cabin as quickly as you could manage, enduring both the shrill of the cold and Micah’s mocking as you wobble up to Javier.

His snow-laden poncho flutters wildly with the wind, and you hold up your lantern in one hand, your other clutching onto your crutch tightly.

“Where’s Arthur?”

He chuckled at your concern, and at first, you think he is as barbed as Micah until he smiles warmly at you, “He’s fine. Just got sent on another errand is all. He should be back any moment.”

You deflate some, letting out a small breath of relief as you shiver, huddling back in on yourself.

“Here, come on. I’ll help you to your cabin, and I’ll let you know when he comes back. You need to rest that leg, Lobo.”

You blinked at him, trying to hide your face from the onslaught of wind and snow, “L-Lobo?”

Javier chuckled again, “It’s nothing bad, I promise. Anyways, you and I haven’t really gotten the chance to talk to each other before this.”

“Not really, n-n-no,” your teeth chatter, and you curse at yourself for hurrying out of the door without so much as a proper jacket.

Javier takes in the sorry state of you and shakes his head, “This storm is too serious for you to go without a jacket, Ms. Broce.”

“I k-know, I just—” he opens the door to your cabin, and ushers you inside quickly and shutting the door behind you both, “I n-needed to make sure Arthur was okay. Dutch said you were r-r-raidin' the O’Driscolls.”

“If there’s one person you don’t have to worry for, it’s Arthur,” he tells you, and he guides you over to one of the chairs and helping you down into it, “He’s strong, Ms. Broce, and smart enough to make his way back. He always does.”

Javier steps aside, going over to the table to grab a few blankets folded there. He flaps them out, spreading out the fabrics before returning to you.

He sets the blankets over you, and you thank him quietly as he takes a step back.

“Stay here and warm up. I’ll come to find you as soon as Arthur’s back.”

He goes to leave, and right as he reaches the door, you speak up.

“Javier.”

The man turns to look at you over his shoulder, and he tilts his head.

“Thank you... For both your help and for keepin’ me from worryin’.”

He grins back at you, nodding once, “You’re loyal to him. Least I can do is honor that.”

Murmuring, you feel your cheeks heat, “I wouldn’t call it loyal, just... paranoid.”

“Paranoia still means that you care, Lobo. There is no shame to be had with that.”

“I’m sure there’s still better ways to go about it than running headfirst into a blizzard like this,” you huff.

Javier shrugs, taking a step forward to leave, “He’d do the same for you, I’m sure. But there’s no need to panic, he’s coming back.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll go find him,” Javier promises, tilting his head towards you, “Just try and rest. I’ll be the one who worries, okay?”

“O-Okay... Thank you, Javier.”

“Don’t mention it.”

You nod, and Javier turns, opening the door and leaving while you look after him.

You look after him towards the door, even as Hosea sits down beside you, groaning lightly.

“Arthur will be fine, Ms. Broce,” he assures you, and your eyes move to him and where he tries to warm his gloved hands by the fire, “Things may not be great, but Arthur is no fool. At least, enough of one to get himself killed or lost in a snowstorm.”

Nodding to yourself, you turn back in your chair, rubbing your thigh from where it aches as you try to refocus yourself, “I— I know that. I ain’t been runnin’ with you lot long, but I know...”

“Picked a good time to stay with us, I’ll tell ya that...” he pauses, murmuring, “Say, Arthur told me you had enough money to leave. Right before Blackwater and all of this.”

Hosea’s words have you darting your eyes to him, and you move your head just as fast, finding him already looking towards you.

The fire plays about the wrinkles and lines in his face, and it lights up his eyes as looks to you. He looks so much older here, frailer than you remember.

“I did, yeah,” you mutter back, “We did a homestead robbery, right before everything went wrong. My cut was enough to even my debt.”

“Why didn’t you pay Strauss?” the scowl that grows on Hosea’s face is a sour one, and you frown at its appearance, “You wouldn’t be having to deal with any of this. You could be free of us all.”

“Ain’t like I got much of a choice now... I killed Francis. The town will be lookin’ for me as much as they are you.”

“That may be true as of now, but that doesn’t change why you made your choice in the first place. Before you even went after that bastard,” he leans in, sounding lost, “You had a chance to live your life, and not waste it in this damn gang. Why did you stay?”

Before you can answer, the door bursts open, and you pivot sharply, your eyes widening as you take in the sight of Arthur.

He’s covered in snow, his jacket encrusted with it and the brim of his hat is dusted to the point where you can only see bits of the brown leather underneath. His face is red and in no doubt numb as he shuts the door behind him, shivering and huddling in on himself.

You can tell he’s cold, by the way he shudders and his movements seem so tight and unsteady. He’s been out too long. Too god damn long.

“Arthur,” you and Hosea both stand as you grab your crutch, the older man already making his way to the freezing outlaw by the door.

“G-G-Got an O’D-Driscoll,” Arthur bites out as Hosea ushers him forward towards the fire.

You move to the side, going to grab some more of the blankets from your room. As you go inside, you can still hear the conversation between Hosea and Arthur.

“You brought an O’Driscoll here?”

The way he says it, it sounds like quite a bad thing.

“W-Wasn’t my c-c-choice,” Arthur stutters out, his teeth nearly clicking together as he speaks, “Dutch wanted h-him.”

Hosea curses, and as you emerge with blankets in hand, he looks to you.

“Come on, let’s focus on gettin' you warm first,” Hosea goes and removes Arthur’s hat, knocking the snow off of it as he motions to his coat, “Take that off. It’ll just get wet and freeze ya more.”

Shakily, Arthur obliges, removing the thick blue coat. Hosea grabs onto it, moving it to where it can start drying up by the fire as he also puts Arthur’s hat onto the mantle.

When Arthur looks to you though, you offer him a blanket, smiling at him. He goes to grab it, his frozen fingers struggling to truly get a grasp on it as he takes it from you, wrapping it around himself.

“T-T-Thank you...”

“Just get warm, and we’ll call it even,” you murmur.

He shoots you a small look before he huddles down, eyeing the fire as though warmth has become a foreign concept to him.

“I’ll have to have a word with Dutch about this,” Hosea mutters, rubbing at his chin and then scoffing, “Just add that to the list, I suppose.”

Arthur hums, his head lulling some. You can tell that this day was draining on him in ways he didn’t need, and for how long he was out in this god-awful weather running on Dutch’s command, you’re sure he was about to collapse as soon as he walked through the door.

Without hesitation, you take the second blanket of yours and wrap it around Arthur too, the man barely registering the addition of cloth as his eyes flutter closed. You frown, taking a step back and leaning onto your crutch as you see the way his breathing changes with unconsciousness.

“Dutch is runnin’ him too hard,” Hosea whispers.

You nod, looking down to Arthur and feeling that anxiety only sink further into you, its claim like icy needles that anchor themselves between your ribs.

Softly, you offer an admission.

“I... I worry for him.”

“I know, dear girl,” Hosea sighs, taking his hat off his head to fun fingers through his silver hair before placing it back down again, “We both do.”

You shuffle some, readjusting your weight on your crutch and wincing a bit. Hosea takes notice, and sighs, walking over to you.

“And I worry about you, too,” he stops at your side, taking up some of your weight in a way that helps relieve the sting as he begins to walk you to your bedroom, “A pair of right fools, you are.”

Frowning, you lift your crutch and go to step with your good leg, “You ain’t gotta fuss about me...”

“I’m gonna do nothin’ but have a fuss until we’re all doin’ better,” the older man says haggardly, a bit of bitterness now seeping into his voice, “Until we’re off this god damn mountain, and until Dutch realizes he’s makin’ the wrong choices.”

You look down to the floor, settling down on your bed.

You’re not sure how to say it, not without coming across in a way that would upset Hosea.

After all, you’re new, only having been with the gang now for a little over a month. You haven’t ridden with these people for long, for the time that they have with one another. Especially for the time that Hosea has been with Dutch, from what Arthur told you.

Making comments, especially with the one that lingers on your tongue now, it would only be taken as naivety, as ignorance. As someone who only sees a fraction of imagery and not the whole picture.

To say that you doubted Dutch, that you felt he would not see Hosea’s reason for how blind he has chosen to be so far, you know it will only put a wedge between you and Hosea. That the admission there would not be met with true acceptance, not with the way you can see Hosea warring with himself over the upset he voices already.

So you keep the words to yourself, only offering a light thanks to Hosea at that moment.

The older man smiles tiredly at you, and you feel pity for him then.

He bids you goodnight, walking out of your room, leaving you with only your thoughts to keep you company.

And oh, as you think about everything, about what you dare not say to even Arthur, what company they become.

 

 

**\---**

His name is Kieran — Kieran Duffy.

He’s the poor O’Driscoll bastard that Arthur chased after, lassoed, and brought back to camp on Dutch’s word.

You have yet to meet him, with Dutch having put him in a cabin all by himself with the direct orders that he be left completely by himself.

The callousness he shows to the O’Driscoll surprises you in some ways, but more for how everyone seems to agree to it. Even Charles, who tells you he hasn’t known much of the O’Driscolls in the time he’s run with the gang.

You look towards the shed in which they keep Kieran, and you can hear his broken cries, his desperate pleas. All heard, and all ignored.

It gets to the point where you try not to leave the cabin if you can help it.

Which, only makes matters worse.

During their raid on the O’Driscoll camp, eavesdropping on the men and looting through their items revealed plans for an upcoming train robbery. In fact, the map that the O’Driscolls drew out is all that you see on the table any time you dare to leave your room, with Dutch standing there, plotting openly despite Hosea’s protest.

Dutch is convinced a robbery is a right route to go, claiming the money it promises is what the gang needs after the failure of the ferry robbery. Hosea is quick to point out that they had money before it, that the ferry robbery is the reason they are as bad off as they are, but his rationalizations are not given any consideration as Dutch goes back to scheming. As though Hosea’s words were as empty as the shrill wind outside, a ghost of murmurs, vacant and meaningless.

The only acknowledgment that Hosea receives are promises of money, promises that Dutch’s intentions are pure and at the heart of the gang, despite the way his eyes darken at the prospect of what take there is on that train.

It frustrates you, the way he walks over Hosea as though he wasn’t there. As though the words Hosea told him were nothing more than heresy and ill-fitting concern.

To Dutch, there was no need to worry. There was no need to hold back. To him, the gang has just hit a bump in the road, a slight delay to their overall plans of heading West. There was no death, no suffering, no starvation or misery among the gang’s ranks.

He wanted hope — faith — as much as the glory and fortune that he dreamed for them.

It was just denial, you knew, and with the train was due to arrive come tomorrow morning, there was no way to shake it from the man.

“Arthur,” his deep voice has you raising your head lightly from where you finish up rebandaging your thigh on your bed, taking in the sight of Arthur approaching the table across from your door, “We need a good meal for tomorrow. Somethin’ hearty and warm to get the boys’ spirits up for tomorrow.”

Confused, Arthur hooks his thumbs into his belt and frowns, “And you want me to do that how?”

The door opens to the cabin, and the two men raise their heads for a second before looking back at one another.

“Go huntin’, of course!” he beams, clapping Arthur on the shoulder, “Pearson sent Lenny and Bill out earlier, but it worked as well as you’d expect.”

“Well, Lenny’s more into book readin’, and Bill is an idiot. Ain’t no wonder they found nothin’—”

“Don’t be like that, Arthur—”

“We’ll go.”

It’s Charles, and you lean some to see him come forward, as serious as he always is.”

Arthur frowns, “But Charles, your hand—”

“There’s game in those mountains, now that the storm is letting up some. You just have to know how to find it.”

“I ain’t much of a hunter...” Arthur admits, rubbing at the back of his neck.

“Ms. Broce is.”

You straighten some, especially as the men’s eyes turn to you.

You try to ignore Dutch’s attention, and you stand, using your crutch to lean your weight off of your thigh.

At the sight of it, Arthur immediately turns to Charles, waving his hands with his denial, “No no, you see her leg? She can’t walk right now, let alone _hunt._ ”

Raising a brow at Arthur, Charles looks to you, asking, “Do you want to come along?”

Before you can answer, Arthur scoffs at Charles, “Did you not hear what I just said? Are your eyes not workin’?”

“She can help us track,” Charles says pointedly, raising his right hand to where you can see bandages wrapping around it, “And if her leg keeps her from goin’, then my hand should rule me out too.”

Arthur curses, sticking his lip a bit in an angry pout before he looks towards the ceiling. He thinks for a few seconds before his eyes slip closed, and then he throws his hands into the air.

“Just— fine. Can see I ain’t winnin’ this battle no way.”

Grinning slightly, Charles turns back to you then, “Well, Ms. Broce?”

“I—” you pause, and your eyes shift back to Dutch for a second.

At the idea of staying in this cabin a moment longer, you find the answer slipping out of you before you can even stop it.

“Yeah, I’ll come along.”

Charles brightens at your agreement, while Arthur looks less than happy.

But it’s not like before, with the real estate scheme. There’s no doubt of you in his eyes as you make your way over to them, just worry. You stop in front of Charles, not missing the way Arthur comes to your side.

It warms your heart a little, that is until you realize one glaring thing.

“I uh, well, I don’t really have a jacket thick enough for this,” you admit.

Charles opens his mouth to say something, but before you can say anything else, you feel something wrap around you.

You see a familiar dark blue material wrap around you, and you blink as you look to Arthur, now missing his favorite shotgun coat.

“Arthur—”

“I got more clothes,” he tells you, his voice leaving no room for argument, “Lift your arms.”

You do as instructed, letting Arthur slip the thick sleeves onto you until the jacket swarms you entirely.

It’s warm, smelling like firewood and tobacco, making you wrap it a bit tighter around yourself.

You look to Arthur then who takes a step back, now only wearing his long sleeve shirt and vest, and you smile lightly, “Thank you...”

He nods, and then looks to Charles, “Take her to the horses. I’ll get ready and meet you up by the barn.”

Charles dips his head, and then looks to you, “Come on, Ms. Broce.”

You loop arms with him, and together, you make your way out of the cabin and into the world outside.

Snow still falls, but not at a blinding rate it has been for the past week or two you’ve been stuck up here. You can tell it’s starting to break, despite the vicious hold its had on the land so far.

It’s a relieving thought, and you smile at the prospect.

“How’s your leg?”

Charles words knock you out of your thoughts, and you look to him, working your way slowly through the snow, “It’s about as good as it can be... How about your hand?”

“Ah, it should be fine in a few days... Just a stupid mistake.”

“What happened?”

Charles grins sadly as he leads you to the worn barn across the way, “It was during the ferry robbery... When it got dark out, Micah insisted on using a lantern so he could see. Kept tellin’ him it would get us caught, but he wouldn’t listen, and sure enough... I snuffed it, with my hand, but it was already too late.”

“That whole thing sounds like it was a damn mess,” you mutter.

“It was... and now here we are.”

You stop right outside the barn, and Charles goes to open it. You lean on your crutch as he steps away, pulling one of the large doors open to reveal the inside.

The smell of hay and the horses hit your nose, and you smile as you spot a familiar face poking out of one of the stables.

“That golden fox trotter yours?”

“Yeah,” you say as D’or spots you then, nodding her head and growing excited, “That’s my D’or.”

“She’s beautiful,” Charles tells you, and you move forward as D’or trots up to you.

“Oh, that she is,” you say reverently, patting her as she pushes her face into your hand, greeting you after being apart for so long, “Oh, D’or,” you whisper to her, “I missed ya.”

Your mare whinnies lightly as Charles walks past you, going to pull out his own horse.

He passes by one you don’t recognize, a mahogany bay Tennessee Walker. You eye it curiously, rubbing at D’or’s side.

“Whose horse is that?”

“That? Arthur rode back on him the night they came back with Mrs. Adler,” he says, grabbing a gray and white Appaloosa from where she waits for him in the corner of the barn, “Suppose that’s the one he’ll ride for now, since Boadicea is gone.”

You hum, frowning and forcing yourself you look back to D’or.

You’re still petting her, even as you hear footsteps come up from behind you.

“She’s a good horse,” Arthur says to you, coming up to your side, “She took good care of me while I rode with her.”

You nod, stepping back some and regarding the outlaw at your side, wearing a thick gray jacket, “And I see you took good care of her.”

“I made a promise,” he murmurs.

He looks to Charles as he rides up, already on his horse.

“Which, I never got to thank ya, for lettin’ me ride Taima the other night.”

“D’or needed the rest,” he smiles, “She earned it.”

Arthur nods and then looks back to you, “You’re still not good to ride by yourself. So we’ll do this as we did in Blackwater.

You’re confused for a moment until Arthur gets onto D’or’s saddle, and then offers you a hand.

You look at him, stepping forward. You expect to have to lift yourself up, but Arthur manages to grab onto you, lifting you with ease until you’re saddled up in front of him.

D’or shakes her head, digging her foot into the ground with impatience.

“Looks like she’s ready to go,” Arthur chuckles from behind you, “You on her just right?”

Your leg aches dully, but it’s nothing you can’t deal with or you aren’t used to.

“Yeah,” you say, feeling the outlaw at your back, “I’m ready when you are.”

Arthur’s arms come up at your sides, and grabs onto D’or’s reigns, “Alright, hang on.”

He moves D’or into a light gallop, but it’s slightly slowed due to the thick snow on the ground. Charles comes up to your side, riding on Taima in perfect pace as you go to head out of the remains of Colter.

Your eyes move to the pines, their branches and needles heavy and weighed by the thick snow that covers them. It all glitters in the sunlight, the first bit that you’ve seen in what feels like eons.

“The storm has started to break, so what animals are up here are coming out to feed,” Charles tells Arthur as you take in all of the snow and the steep peaks of the mountains, “The wind’s good today. Not too slow or too biting.”

“That a bad thing?” Arthur asks.

“Helps with scent,” you tell him, “If it doesn’t move or it’s too quick, they won’t feel safe, and they won’t come out.”

The outlaw behind you hums, “Learn somethin’ every day...”

Charles chuckles from beside you both, and he asks, “Did you ever learn to use a bow, Arthur?”

“Not much... Never really got the hang of it. Why?”

You answer him again, “It’s the best to hunt deer with. Keeps the pelt in the best condition, but it’s also quiet. Helps keep you from spookin’ ‘em all.”

“If we use a gun, every animal for miles will hear it, and then we really won’t have anything to hunt,” Charles explains.

Arthur curses lightly under his breath, and it makes you smile.

“Well, there goes my plans... How are you with a bow, Wolf?” the outlaw asks.

You look down to your lap as you head up the hill, Colter fading with distance behind you, “Good enough.”

“Well, we’ll have to see. With my hand, I won’t be able to show Arthur how to use it. And since it’s your leg that’s injured, I figure you could demonstrate.”

You huff, “Figures. If you put us together, you have one able-bodied teacher.”

Arthur and Charles laugh at that, but it soon dies down, and the ride continues on.

As you head deeper into the woods, the snow grows a little thicker, almost reaching the horses’ knees. Arthur and Charles slow the mares down into a light trot, letting them work through it as best they are able as they push onward.

“You know, I haven’t gotten to really ask you what happened on that boat,” Arthur says after a few moments more of riding, and you see Charles look at you both as he speaks, “We were in town when the first shots went off. Sounded like you all were recreating the war on that harbor.”

Charles frowns, and his expression is grim as he looks forward, “It... It didn’t go as we thought. The whole thing... It felt wrong. We told Dutch, but he and Micah weren’t listening to any of us.”

“Javier told me Dutch shot a woman, in a bad way,” Arthur says, and you look pointedly towards your lap.

“I’m not sure what to think about it. I wasn’t there to see it like Javier,” Charles comments, but his voice grows a bit unsure, “But I know enough to say that none of what happened on that ferry was anything good.”

Before they can continue with their conversation, something catches Charles’ eye, and he slows Taima into an immediate stop.

Arthur does the same, and you watch as Charles drops down, crouching as he narrows on tiny tracks in the snow.

“What is it?”

“Deer,” you tell him, your eyes already following the trail, and your ears picking up the faint sound of water that runs nearby, “They went towards the river, that way.”

Charles stands, looking to you with a smile, “Not bad.”

You shrug, trying not to feel flustered by the praise.

Charles goes and gets back on Taima, and motions for Arthur to follow.

“The tracks are good here. Fresh,” he says, his voice dropping in volume, “They must’ve passed through only moments ago.”

He follows them for a minute with you and Arthur in tow, until he holds up his hand, peering through a break in the tree line.

There is a small river that runs some ways ahead, and there, on the banks of it, stands a lone doe.

You feel Arthur stiffen somewhat behind you, especially as Charles removes a bow from his saddle, passing it over to you.

“Ride a little bit ahead, but tell him when to stop,” as you grab onto the weapon and the arrows he offers to you, he adds, “Teach him what you know.”

You nod, swallowing as you turn your focus back to the doe ahead of you.

“Move a few more feet.”

Arthur does as you tell him, moving D’or at a slow speed. She is accustomed to this, having hunted with you for years, so even in the heavy snowfall, she maneuvers herself as quietly as she can manage. Arthur looks a bit impressed when you turn back to him, holding up your hand to signal him to stop. The doe is still some bit away, but she remains clueless as she drinks from the river.

Grabbing an arrow, you place its end against the string of the bow, readying it.

“Aim for the head,” you tell him quietly, just above a whisper.

The outlaw leans in, his chest pressing against your back as you speak.

“Don’t hold the shot, and let go when you exhale.”

He leans back when you raise the bow, expertly pulling the string taut as you line up the shot. The wind blows lightly, and you make your adjustments, breathing out until the moment feels right.

The doe begins to lift her head, sensing you both, but it is over before she truly realizes what is happening.

She drops, the arrow sticking out from beside her ear before you’ve even lowered the bow, and Arthur whistles lowly as Charles rides up.

“Nice work,” Charles tells you, and you smirk at him, “You sell yourself short.”

“There’s a difference between being humble and honest,” you joke.

Behind you, Arthur makes a small noise, “Well, a little honesty never hurt no one.”

Charles rides forward on Taima, and Arthur makes D’or follow. He stops about a foot or so away, dropping off of his mare and going to grab the body of the doe to put on the back of his horse.

Once the body is tied up and on the back of the mare, Charles’ eyes look back to the snow near his feet.

“There’s some more tracks here. She must’ve split off to get a drink,” he raises his head, looking to Arthur, “Think it’s time we go ahead and test you with that bow.”

Arthur grumbles but doesn’t object. Instead, he gives the reigns to you, hopping off of D’or gently, as to not move your leg. He takes the bow and arrows from you, and you raise a brow as he looks up at you.

“Stay here with the horses,” he tells you, “We’ll be right back.”

You huff, “You better be.”

Your bite has him smiling lightly, and he turns, looking to Charles.

“Come on. That deer shouldn’t have gone far...”

 

 

**\---**

You come back with two deer, much to everyone’s rejoicing.

Arthur managed to snag a decent buck, and he’s definitely proud of himself whenever you see a clean shot straight into its jaw.

He carries it with him the entire way back, and it only grows as Pearson gratefully accepts the two deer you bring to him.

“To think, the great Arthur Morgan huntin’ after all these years.”

When you send him a questioning look, Arthur shrugs, “’Bout time we all do our part with us on the run.”

You don’t push it, and you quickly get focused on other things.

The air in the camp is a little lighter now, with the first warm meal being served since Blackwater.

You’d give Dutch this, the stew did brighten everyone up, even you as you sat around the fire in the cabin, with Dutch telling a story of fishing escapades. Arthur is beside you, eating his stew, while Dutch and Hosea are seated across from you both.

“You know, this was probably around the time that Arthur was fresh into his twenties...”

“Oh no, not this one,” Arthur grumbles, his cheeks turning a bit red as he goes to hide his face under his hat.

“Oh, Arthur, you need to be humbled every now and again!” Hosea chirps, and he looks to you, grinning like mad, “This is a good one, lemme tell ya.”

As Hosea and Dutch laugh knowingly, Arthur groans, looking pained.

Dutch looks to you, and for the first time, he feels more of like a person now than the entire time you’ve known him.

“I had just taught him how to fish, and he was really big into goin’ out on his own, provin’ himself and whatnot as any young man does,” Dutch leans back, his smirk as warm as the fire as Arthur glares his way, “He’d been gone for a few days, and when he shows up, he comes back with three absolutely gorgeous rock bass. Says he caught them, with his chest all puffed up, and that night, we cooked ‘em up, and it was the best meal we had in weeks.”

Hosea nudges Dutch’s shoulder then, and Arthur sets his bowl down into his lap so he can put his face into his hands.

“And here I am thinkin’, I’ve taught him well. Arthur’s so proud of himself, he can’t even shut up about it,” Dutch continues, his laugh already edging into his words as Hosea chuckles, “But when we go into town and head to the market, the man runnin’ the fish stand looks to Arthur and recognizes him. And he grows quiet for the first time since he came back when he yells, _hey, Arthur, how’d you like those rock bass I sold ya?”_

Admittedly, the laugh that escapes you is one of pure reaction, whereas Hosea and Dutch go wild with laughter. Arthur grumbles from beside you, turning away at the expense of being the joke that entertains the lot of you.

“Oh, the look on your face!” Dutch yells, slapping at his knee, “It’s ‘bout like the one on ya now!”

“Glad that you’re still findin’ that enjoyable...” he gravels.

You giggle some, looking to him, “It’s funny,” you say, and when Arthur’s face falls some, you add, “But it’s also cute.”

“Cute?” he looks to you, “You think it’s cute?”

Hosea and Dutch laugh a bit harder, and Arthur grimaces.

“Well, I—” you huff, “You just wanted to impress them.”

“And what a way I went about it,” he scowls.

You frown lightly, but Hosea pulls your attention away.

“What about you, Ms. Broce? You have any stories like that to share?”

The men’s eyes turn to you, and you look down to your lap, twiddling your thumbs together, “Well... I’m... I’m not sure.”

“Oh, everyone’s got a story!” Dutch encourages you, leaning forward and resting his forearm over his knee, “What’s yours?”

“Well, uh... there was one time, when I was a young girl, when I convinced an entire town that a bear lived in the swamp.”

Dutch’s eyes widen, and even Arthur looks curious as he faces you.

“You did _what—_ ”

“I had this fear of bears when I was younger. I heard nothin’ good about ‘em, and my dad always treated huntin’ them like he wouldn’t come back,” you explain, “Sometimes, he was contracted out of Tall Trees, where we lived. And when I was about fourteen, he was asked to come to help out and get this gator near Butcher Creek, further east from here.”

“I’ve heard of that place,” Hosea comments, looking a bit disgusted, “Nothin’ but nasty people there.”

“And dumb too,” you say, “I remember they swarmed my dad and me when he stopped into town, but it was better than the swamps nearby. I hated the bugs and the gators, but I hated this place even more. They just bothered me somethin’ fierce. I didn’t like stayin’ there, and I didn’t like the way they talked to me.”

“Which was?”

“Hosea isn’t wrong when he says they’re nasty people. Rude, unmannered, and quick to anger. They make Micah look like a saint.”

Arthur frowns at that comparison.

“Anyway, my dad was caught up trying to get some supplies, and he was talkin’ to a family there while the rest of the townsfolk came my way. They rarely have visitors, so they were a bit taken with me. I was gettin' real tired of ‘em, and they kept askin’ about what we were huntin’. One of the boys wouldn’t stop touchin’ me either, despite me tellin’ him to stop. And when they kept givin’ my dad grief, and I felt like I owed them some too. So I had an idea and went with it.”

They all come to sit on the edge of their seats, watching you as you smirk and recall the moment as clearly as it happened.

“I told ‘em we were after a bear. A big one, too. Brought down from the mountains because it could smell all the animal carcasses, the ones they just leave lyin’ about in town. I said we’d tracked it here, and that it was managin’ to live in the swamps by catching fish and eatin’ night folk. Some of them were scared, but others weren’t entirely convinced. A bear, in the swamps?”

Hosea chuckles, “Sounds pretty farfetched.”

“Oh it was, but I was on a mission, Hosea,” you tell him, “They pulled guns out on my dad, told him to leave. He grabbed me, and we high-tailed it outta there. But that’s when I really set it on it.”

You tell them about how you snuck into the swamps while your father was asleep, making false bear tracks in the mud and even digging what looked like claw marks into the trunks of trees with your hunting knife. You even made piles of fish bones, and slowly each night grew closer and closer to Butcher Creek as you moved up the swamps with your father.

They’re all smiling, listening to recount the night in which you truly brought your creation to life.

“I could hear ‘em that night when I was stalking up on the town. They’d see all the tracks and markings I’d made, and they were gettin' freaked out. Damn fools were pilin’ all the animal bits at the edge of town to get rid of ‘em, they were so scared. It was perfect.”

You stand, going to raise your arms as you lightly stomp your good foot as you hobble around.

“I was a bit more agile than I am now, but it did the trick when I had lantern light behind me. Had them runnin’ for _miles,_ ” they all burst out laughing, and you start to head back to your seat.

“Damn woman, I need to make sure I never make you angry!” Arthur laughs, looking to you with his eyes alight and humored.

You sit back down, grinning to him, “What can I say, when I’m dedicated, that’s when the magic happens.”

“Say, we might have to use that sort of dedication later on,” Dutch smirks, “If you can convince an entire town there’s a bear in their swamp, who knows what else you can do.”

Your smile falls some, and you duck your head, “Well, we’ll just have to see...”

The mood dies a little, and silence passes between you all for a moment. Grabbing your bowl of stew, you go back to eating, trying to keep yourself occupied.

It’s then that Hosea stands, stretching and holding back a cough, “T-Think I’m off for the night... Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“You get your rest, old man,” Dutch chuckles, waving him off.

It leaves you three alone together, and Dutch looks to Arthur as soon as Hosea shuts the door off to his room.

His voice is low, and he leans in to try and keep his words between you.

“So... that train.”

Arthur sighs, setting his bottle of beer down and looking to the older man before him, “What about it?”

“I’ve been readin’ what Colm wrote about it. It’s got bonds,” he says, “From none other than Leviticus Cornwall.”

“Who the hell is Leviticus Cornwall?”

“Form what Hosea warns me of, a railroad and sugar cane magnate of the century,” Dutch leans back in his seat some, and he motions to the table with a nod from his head, “It’s rolling through the mountains near here, delayed from the blizzard. It won’t be as protected, as most of the men ride ahead to clear the tracks.”

“You really think hittin’ this train is a good idea right now? I thought we was supposed to be focused on gettin’ off this mountain and lyin’ low with the Pinkertons on our tails.”

Dutch frowns at Arthur’s doubt, “We can’t, not yet. Wherever we go, we’re gonna need money, Arthur. This train is gonna set us right. Give us what we need so we can wait this out till headin’ back west is doable for us.”

Shaking his head, Arthur throws his hands up lightly, “If you think that’s what we need to do, Dutch...”

“I don’t think, I _know_ that’s what we need,” he pauses, eyes moving between the two of you, “And what we need is faith, from the both of you. From everyone in this camp. These past few weeks have been hell, for that, I cannot deny. But we can still make this work— we can still make something of ourselves.”

He stands, looking at both you and Arthur as he straightens up his coat.

“The ferry was a mistake. I see that now. Jenny, Davey, Mac, Sean— I blame myself for their deaths, for their misfortunes... I have not spent a day up on this mountain not seeing and feeling the guilt that I have carried since we got off of that boat,” his eyes land on Arthur, and he narrows them softly as he tilts his head, looking as though he was about to beg for forgiveness, “Arthur, I’m only tryin’ to make up for what I’ve done. For what I should’ve done... To do right by all of us.”

A second later, Arthur looks away, his expression clouded, “I know...”

“Then please, son. Try and find faith in me again. In what I want for us,” he moves away from his seat, heading towards his own room before he glances to you, “In what you want for yourself.”

Arthur is quiet as Dutch shuts the door to this room, the two of you watching as Dutch pulls his door shut, leaving you two in the middle of the room.

After a few moments, Arthur stands, and he glances down to you.

“You turnin’ in for the night?” he asks.

You press your lips together, thinking for a moment, “Suppose I should...”

“Then come on.”

He holds a hand out to you, and you take it.

His palm is warm against your own, and you feel that warmth at the small of your back as he lifts you up.

Your crutch remains steadfast in the crook of your arm, and you smile lightly at Arthur as you go to move. He is patient, working with you and helping you every step of the way.

You can tell your leg is getting better, that it’s healing, but you’re still leaps and bounds away from walking on your own. Especially when you nearly slip, and Arthur catches you.

Darting to him, your eyes lock on his own, and you breathe out in shock as you try and readjust yourself.

“T-Thanks.”

Arthur’s eyes linger on you for a moment, until he seems to get back to himself, and he nods, pushing you forward as he forces himself to look elsewhere.

You manage to get to your room, and he stops once you are right beside your bed. He helps you sit down, taking your crutch and setting it by your nightstand as you watch him.

Once he’s done, he stands, looking back to you, his eyes guarded and his lips pressed together.

“I—” he starts, and then shakes his head, “You have a good night, Wolf.”

He only gets a few steps away before you call after him.

“Arthur, wait.”

The outlaw stops, turning just enough to regard you.

You feel something pull in your throat as he looks to you, patient and unassuming. Even as you start to say something a few times, but can’t quite find the words.

Frustrated, you steel your resolve, and look to your hands and where they nervously bunch in the blankets on your bed.

“I just wanted to tell you, with the train in the morning,” you breathe, “stay safe.”

It’s familiar, like the night back in Blackwater, when he took you to the back of the wagon while the world was falling apart around you both. The way you worried for him then, the way you felt fear at the idea of something happening to you, of not knowing.

Your leg twinges at the memory, but so does your heart, and the corner of Arthur’s lips as his gaze warms on you.

“I promise.”

You nod, looking back down to your lap, “Goodnight, Arthur...”

“Night, Wolf.”

And he leaves, shutting the door behind him.

 

 

**\---**

_March 2nd, 1896_

_My father has unfortunately met his end._

_I’ve taken over his entitlements— the house, his finances, his office._

_His journal._

_I am nowhere near the fraction of the man my father was, nor will I be anything like him. I know this. The town knows this._

_But I can do nothing more than try._

_February 13th, 1898_

_It has been a while. A long while._

_I have never felt an urge to write in this until now._

_I’m not sure how I can manage this. In fact, I haven’t been._

_My father attempted to teach me all he knew. I have his books, his papers. And yet, when I attempt his writings, at thinking like him, I only manage to make a bigger mess of things._

_There was a man near town, a trapper by trade. He’s well known in these parts, and I believe my father used his services at some point or another._

_I gave him simple medicines in the hope it would clear his cough. It should, if God is forgiving to the likes of me._

_But then again, he never tends to show much mercy._

_March 8th, 1898_

_The bank wants to take the house. The office. Everything._

_Word around town is that I barely manage to exist as a shadow of my father. People avoid me like the plague. Even visitors._

_They are not wrong in their caution. I know that I am better at killing a man that I am at healing him._

_So why not stick to what I know?_

_There was a man, in Saint Denis... There was a meeting there, a collection of various doctors who congregate in the city and discuss their findings in medicine. Cures, notes, advice._

_My father was invited every year until he passed, and once he did, the invitation passed onto me._

_Until this year._

_I was a fool. Or in denial. Most likely both. I believed the letter was lost in the mail. That it had been sent and had not been received._

_But there was no doubting the lack when they kept the door closed, after slamming it in my face._

_I suppose word reached them too, and now I’ve been barred. Blacklisted..._

_It was my last hope of saving everything. Of not losing all that my father built, all that I destroyed._

_But, I managed to procure another._

_There is another man here, a man I happened upon while at the hotel, drinking myself away at the bar. He was also rejected from the meeting, told to relocate himself “or else.”_

_I don’t remember his name, as I was unfortunately too inebriated to recall anything other than my pounding head the following morning, but he did offer me his so-called “special tonic.”_

_Even I can tell that this recipe is one for disaster._

_Oleander sage? It’s a common ingredient in poisons if memory serves me correctly. And that is before you consider other mixtures of various tonics ranging from hair growth to fouled bitters. And much to my horror, it calls for even a dilution of horse reviver._

_This man is obviously mad._

_But, as I heard somewhere before, there can be a method to madness._

_I took his recipe, much to his immense pleasure, and I intend to tweak it._

_To make it not as... instantaneously fatal._

_After all, illness is my business._

_And I will not want for more if business is good._

 

 

**\---**

That morning, the storm truly breaks.

For the first time, the sun begins to shine outside, and as you exit the cabin, taking a deep, stinging breath as you close your eyes in the rays, you begin to feel some amount of hope stir within you.

Coming up from behind, Arthur chuckles at your reaction, stepping beside you as you look to him. The outlaw hooks his thumbs on his belt, surveying the camp as the others involved prepare to leave for the train robbery. Despite the collar from his shotgun coat, you can see the beginnings of a smirk playing on his lips.

“Figure we just gotta wait for the wagons to thaw out,” he tells you, sounding a bit cheerful about their situation for the first time since before the ferry, “I reckon we get our cut from this train, and we can be headin’ down off this damned mountain before the week’s out.”

Humming, you lean against your crutch as he whistles for his Walker, his gray, wool frock coat keeping out most of the cold now that the storm has died out.

“’Bout time,” as his colt trots up to him, you tilt your head, “You name that horse yet?”

Arthur looks to you for a moment before he approaches his horse, running a hand down his neck as he reaches for some oatcakes out of his satchel.

“Haven’t yet. Not sure what I could call him...” as the walker eats timidly out of his palm, Arthur sighs, “He’s not a bad horse, not by any means, but— . . . He ain’t no Boadicea.”

Quietly, you murmur, “None of them ever could be.”

Nodding lightly, Arthur pats the colt one more time.

“No. No, they could not,” he lets out a breath, and moves to the colt’s middle, “But he’ll do me for now.”

As Arthur saddles up, you limp his way, your eyes narrowed as he adjusts himself in the saddle, towering over you and becoming a stark outline against the rising sun.

The morning rays catch him just right, illuminating the green in his eyes enough to where you can see bits of blue scattered about his irises. They move to you, pinning their stare on you as he tilts his head. The soft, early morning light casts a warm yellow through his growing facial hair and along the planes of his face, and the few scars there as he smiles just as brightly at you.

He almost looks ethereal, and your breath catches.

“What’s got you all doe-eyed, Wolf?”

You shake your head, looking away and flushing lightly as you clear your throat, “N-Nothin’, really... Just... Happy that things are looking good for us.”

“Why are you so red? You cold?”

Heating further, you try even more to avoid his gaze, “Yeah... Just cold.”

You hear something rustle beside you, and you can see from the corner of your eye where Arthur moves something in his saddlebags.

The outlaw hums, not pushing anymore while he agrees, “It’s been a tough few weeks... But we pulled through...”

He pauses, and to your surprise, Arthur leans down enough to place his black neckerchief down over your head and around your neck. The material is soft, just like the hinting touch of his fingers on your skin as he fixes up the knot.

You look up to him, his hands lingering for just a moment, just long enough before they pull away, right before it would be considered indecent. His eyes crinkle at the edges, as warm as the sun as he leans back and grabs ahold of the reins, his lips ticking up as he regards you.

“And we’ll keep pullin’ through, no matter what is thrown at us,” his words are fond and just as sweet as the fluttering feeling emerging somewhere in your stomach.

Before you or Arthur can say or do anything else, Dutch moves into the small road cutting through the remains of Colter, and shouts.

“Everyone! We are headin’ out!” the white stallion underneath him throws up his head as Dutch makes him pace, his eyes moving about all of the souls that eye him from either their own horses, or the doorways of their cabins, “We are robbin’ this train, and we’re gettin' what we need! And once this is done, after a few days and some sun, we will be off of this damned mountain!”

A few cheers from the girls alongside Pearson can be heard as Dutch’s eyes land on you and Arthur.

“Arthur!” Dutch calls, waving his hand, “That train is comin’, whether you are or not!”

Arthur lets out a breath before you look to him, and he yells back, “Just a second, Dutch!”

The raven-haired man mutters a small curse and rolls his eyes lightly, dismissing his second before going to gather the rest of the troop.

“Looks like I’m headin’ out, Wolf,” he tells you, and he grabs his hat out of his opened saddlebag, placing it on his head, “Don’t get into too much trouble while I’m gone.”

“Says the man robbin’ a train,” you jest.

It gets a chuckle out of Arthur, and he steers his horse around, walking him in the direction where Dutch and the others are growing impatient, “Trouble? Me? Oh, now Wolf, I’m utterly wounded by your expectations of me.”

Smiling softly, you shake your head, “Just— get gone and don’t be stupid,” you move your crutch then, “Otherwise I’ll be lendin’ you this damn thing.”

The outlaw grins, tipping his hat to you, “See you ‘round, Wolf.”

You wave to him before he turns, spurring his Walker forward till he reaches the rest of the appointed posse to ride out.

Your eyes trail them, and you sigh, all of their forms fading with distance as they ride out towards the valley and where the train tracks cut through it like the winding rivers off the mountains.

All of this — this damned train robbery — you’re not fond of it. Never have been, since Dutch became so enraptured with planning and committing the act.

What they exactly plan on reaping from all of this today, you’re unsure, but one thing is for certain— they’re eager. And desperate.

It’s not a mix that you envy, or find particularly enjoyable in terms of prospects. Not when such eagerness and desperation drove you all to this point, and cost much more than what you could ever replace.

But greed doesn’t know the humility in failure. It does not understand the rationality of limitations. It rebukes both, for it only hungers, only remains as the pestilence it is. Never to evolve, never to learn.

Never to let those in its snares go.

What will come of this train robbery today, you are unsure.

But one thing is certain— this will not be the last.

From the sound of crunching snow, you know someone has come to join you, and you turn to see Hosea stop right at your side.

His tired eyes are also looking towards the end of the road, to where almost all the men have ridden off and disappeared with the promise of railroad bonds and bountiful train cars.

“This is the start of somethin’,” he starts as the others begin to file back into their cabins, already falling back into the nature of things, “The start of what, I don’t know... Or maybe I do, and I just don’t want to admit it.”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur, and you set your free hand onto his shoulder.

“This world is changin’, Ms. Broce,” he says, your hand falling from him as he turns back towards the cabin you share, “And the poor bastards like us need to catch up with it before we’re left behind like the past.”

Cautiously, you ask, “Which is?”

Pulling back the door, Hosea mutters, “Dead and forgotten.”

At the words, your lips part softly, and Hosea excuses himself.

As he shuts the door, you look back to the road, thinking of Arthur and wondering what that meant for him.

 

 

**\---**

_February 22nd, 1898_

_Almost a year later._

_Almost an entire year, and I have finally managed my intentions with that cure I picked up back in Saint Denis._

_I haven’t quite tested it out yet, at least, long term._

_I know that my soul is damned as I write this. As I write any of this. But it makes no difference..._

_Up until this point, I have been testing it on folks who were already dying._

_It killed a few at first when the dosages were still being perfected. It made no difference, though. And the law never came asking questions._

_As the months passed, I grew more confident with my corrections. I suppose that killing is my one true talent, as making this poison has come easier to me than making any tonic or remedy._

_These past few weeks, I’ve perfected this supposed medicine to where it causes illness in the form of stomach pains and vomiting. It’s not enough to be particularly noticeable, especially if the individual taking it came to me for already being ill._

_They will only see it as a worsening state of their condition, and they will come back to me._

_My new version of that man’s failed tonic is ready to be used on a true test subject._

_And I think I know of the perfect one—_

“What do you have your nose in?”

Jolting, you nearly drop what you have in your hands, and you let out a breath as Hosea joins you by the fire.

He is in a bit of a better mood, and you’re glad for it, despite the topic at hand.

“A journal,” you tell him, “We snagged it from Francis. Right before everythin’.”

Hosea notices the way that you’re speaking, with the way your voice is tight and you somewhat close yourself off.

Tilting his head at you, he asks, “You okay?”

“Just a hard read, is all,” you murmur, wiping at your eye.

Hosea leans over then, placing his hand on yours, and giving it a light squeeze, “Maybe it’s best left unread, then.”

You don’t shake him off, but you voice your disagreement, “No... There was so much wrong with that real estate scheme, Hosea. So much we didn’t know... There’s still somethin’ else. Somethin’ I know I’m missin’. And I think I can find it here in this journal if I read through it.”

“Ain’t that all put to rest now, though? Thought we ruled it as somethin’ better bein’ left alone.”

“It was until Garrett Matthews paid Francis a visit, and Arthur and I overheard him talk of murderin’ Claudius.”

The old man’s eyes narrow, and he curses, shaking his head, “That’s... unfortunate. What became of Mr. Matthews? Do you know?”

Frowning, you flip past a few of Francis’ entries, trying to find a more recent date, “Francis killed him, the night of the ferry robbery in Blackwater...”

“Lord have mercy...”

“Arthur came along with me once I realized what Francis had done. What he was doin’ to Jack,” you say, your voice growing low as you thumb about the pages, “I was hellbent on confrontin’ him. Of doin’ somethin’. We got into town right as bullets started firin’ at the docks, and we got inside, he’d already offed Matthews hours prior.”

Hosea leans back in his chair, and you glance up at him, seeing the way his face falls at your words, “I’m guessin’ things didn’t work out, then.”

“Us pullin’ out and runnin’ off on Garrett turned up the heat, and not in a good way... When we overheard them in his office, he said that whoever he was really workin’ for, the one orchestratin’ all this, was none too happy. He about shot Francis over this journal, said they needed it just in case Emily was able to reclaim the plantation since Claudius willed it to her, daughter or not.”

Hosea whistles, removing his hat and looking towards the fire, his voice distant, “An invisible benefactor.”

“Not invisible, just unknown,” you stop then, a few words catching your eye, “And I have every intention of knowin’ who they are.”

Lifting his chin, Hosea regards the journal you study in your hands, “Found somethin’?”

“Yeah... Might’ve,” you lean down further to the pages, reading some of what they say aloud, “This here... Francis is talkin’ about bein’ confronted by Garrett for the first time after Emily tried to send for him for Claudius. Per his request.”

“Didn’t you say that Francis was an awful doctor?”

“You had a better chance at drinkin’ street water than anythin’ he chalked up, even if it didn’t kill ya like he intended,” you hiss, squinting as you pace on through Francis’ writing, “But Claudius didn’t want medicine.”

Hosea huffs, “So, a horrible doctor comes upon the house call of a sick man to do what, exactly? Read him his rights?”

“No... Claudius knew he was dyin’. He was sick for a while, had everythin’ in order before... before...”

You look up from the journal, your eyes widening.

“Ms. Broce?”

“He told Francis.”

Hosea blinks, looking to you as though you about lost your head, “I don’t think I follow—”

“The day that Arthur and I went to Havenwood Plantation, we told you ‘bout how we ran into Emily.”

Hosea nods, but his expression still screams about how lost he is as the pieces fall together in your mind, your heart racing.

“She told us how her not bein’ Claudius’ daughter by blood was a family secret, that she had no idea how they were able to prove she was illegitimate. That anybody even knew,” you hold your place in the journal with a finger while you flip to the one page you marked when you first started reading, “This, this here— this is Francis’ father, he wrote this. This is what Garrett and whoever he was workin’ for wanted. The written account of Emily bein’ Eli Bourbaki’s daughter.”

Nodding, you see the moment that Hosea begins to pick up on what you’re telling him, “He called Francis to ask about the journal... To keep it just a secret... But why would they go through all this trouble? It’s just a plantation. Surely it ain’t worth all of this?”

Flipping back to where you were reading beforehand, your eyes scouring the scribbles of ink until they land on a very familiar, and very damning name.

“Oh...”

It’s then that the cabin door opens, and both Dutch and Arthur come through. Arthur’s face is a bit drawn up, and he pushes past Dutch, coming to both you and Hosea.

“Ah, you’re back!” Hosea chirps, but his smile quickly falls as he notices the stricken expression on Arthur’s face, “Did... Did somethin’ happen?”

“We all made it back just fine,” Arthur clarifies, and it’s then that he moves his hand forward, his gloved fingers wrapped around bits of folded papers, “But it’s what I found that’s the problem.”

“Somethin’ wrong with the take?”

“There’s somethin’ goin’ on with it alright,” Arthur looks to you then, his eyes narrowing when he sees Francis’ journal in your lap, “You’ve been readin’ that?”

“’Course I have. Have been since we first started ridin’ up here,” you stand, using your crutch as you approach Arthur, and you attempt to move as quickly as possible, “This damn leg can keep me from a lot of things, but readin’ ain’t one of ‘em.”

Growing a bit impatient, Hosea also stands, coming closer, “What is it that’s got you so spooked?”

Arthur’s lips thin, and he removes one of the papers he has, unfolding it and showing it to the older man. The corner of it has been ripped off, and it looks rather torn up, but whatever it says, it is still damning all the same.

You watch as Hosea reads it, and how his expression changes.

“This... This changes things,” Hosea looks to Dutch, his face turning as sour as you’ve ever seen it, “Dutch, we shouldn’t have robbed this train.”

Dutch makes a face at that, looking to you three as though you’d gone mad, “A bit late for that now, isn’t it? Even then, it was a good take! We got what we needed, and we can start headin’ for the heartlands as we planned here in a few days—”

“It ain’t about headin’ in the wrong direction of where we want to go!” Hosea snaps, his voice colder than the storm ever was, “I told you we should’ve let this train pass, that we need to lay low, and now you go and rob the one man who we’ve already scorned!”

“I’ve never done a damn thing to this pig until today. Don’t play with me, Hosea,” Dutch hisses.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a personal offense when it’s _your_ name we all run under,” Hosea bites back with just as much grit, “You take a look at this damn paper and you tell me what you see!”

Dutch’s glare is venomous, but he does as Hosea demands of him, snatching the paper out of his hands as Arthur moves closer to you.

He stops right by your side, his voice dipping low as Dutch looks up, blinking as he looks to Hosea.

“Wolf,” Arthur snaps your attention to him, and you look to him, his face scrunched up in a mixture of concern and apprehension, “What all did that journal tell you?”

“Everythin’. I— Arthur, the whole plantation scheme, it— it was all his game. The entire time, we were just pawns,” you breathe, and you look to the paper that Dutch folds, his demeanor losing its confidence upon what he’s just seen, “What is that even supposed to be?”

Arthur takes a step forward, going to grab it, “It’s... It’s nothin’ you want to see.”

“No, she needs to see it,” Dutch says, moving the paper out of Arthur’s reach, his voice purposefully calm despite the glint you see in his eyes, “It’s about her, after all.”

Those words, they are like ice water.

Cold, heavy, damning.

For a moment, you believe you misheard, but as Dutch hands the paper to you, there is no doubt that you misunderstood a single syllable he has uttered.

“Wolf, you ain’t gotta—”

Your eyes focus on the portraits there on the paper, your chest all about seizing as you notice just how familiar one is. Too familiar. Too accurate to be anyone else.

You recognize Arthur and Hosea, but most of all, the woman pictured beside them.

The missing corner, it cuts part of the names away, but it is unmistakable with the way Broce is printed in large, black letters, just like the header, that it is you depicted on this poster.

“Wanted dead or alive for larceny, robbery, and several counts of murder,” you read aloud, your voice cold and numb, deafening to your own ears, “Five thousand in reward for all Van Der Linde associates, paid by the Blackwater Sheriff’s Office, and Cornwall Oil Industries...”

As you lower the paper, as shaken as you are indifferent to Arthur as he comes up to you, taking the poster out of your hands, Hosea approaches Dutch.

“We’re gonna need more than just a few days of sun and thaw to get out of this one, Dutch,” Hosea hisses, “Especially now that you’ve gone and robbed Cornwall’s train after we apparently pissed him off enough to put bounties on us!”

Arthur frowns then, shaking his head, “But that don’t make any sense! The amount of money he’s askin’ for! Why was he—”

“Don’t you remember?”

They all turn their eyes to you, but you only face Arthur, your voice hollow as his gaze softens.

“Emily said it. Garrett said it. Francis said it,” you go to the chair, taking the journal and shoving it towards Arthur, and when the outlaw takes it hesitantly, you continue, “The Havenwood Plantation was never just a fancy estate. It wasn’t just good cropland used for generations. You wanna know why Cornwall wants our heads for so much is because we cost him a hell of a lot more than what he has listed on those posters.”

Hosea steps forward, looking to you, “How is Cornwall even involved with that?”

“ _He_ was attempting to buy the plantation. He’s the unknown benefactor,” you watch as Arthur finishes reading Francis’ entry, the one that was all you needed to stitch the rest of this together as you continue, “The Havenwood Plantation— he wanted to buy it because there’s oil there. And we botched it, without even knowing, just to pillage one of his trains today with every intention of robbin’ him blind.”

Hosea curses, and he runs a hand over his face. Meanwhile, Arthur closes Francis’ journal, his face grim.

“We can fix this—”

“There ain’t no such thing, Dutch,” Hosea turns to him then, “We killed his men, took his bonds, ruined the chance of him gettin' another oil field no less, and you think we can fix this?”

Dutch presses his lips together, and he eyes the older man, “Our hands are gonna be tied, Hosea. What’s done is done, there is no argument about that. But we are smarter than him. We are _better_ than him.”

“If this is a speech about how our merry group of criminals is somehow above the likes of tycoons and their empires, then I don’t wanna hear it,” Hosea snaps, “I want to hear about what we’re gonna do _now._ ”

Dutch quiets at Hosea’s bite, and you watch as the man pieces together their next course of action. Beside you, Arthur is just as quiet and observant, his eyes dancing between the two men like the embers that rise from flames crackling in the hearth.

Hosea looks as mad as you’ve ever seen him, his scowl deep but his eyes scared. You can tell this shakes the man, gets under his skin. And for someone as natured in the ways of the life of an outlaw as Hosea is, you know that the gravity of this situation is something he hasn’t faced before.

And it’s obvious that Hosea’s state affects Dutch, the man’s brows pinching as he tries to find the right words in a moment that feels as though there could never be any.

But he finds something. Be it truth, be it lies. Be it a fantasy instead of a plan to become reality.

His confidence finally emerges. Whether it is a façade or mask of some sort is debatable, but there is no doubt that Dutch attempts to reassure you all as he begins to speak.

“We’re gonna wait till the wagons are ready, and once they are, we’re gonna head down this mountain. We’re gonna set up camp, out of this damn cold, and we are gonna start workin’ our way out of this mess in whatever ways we can,” he regards all of you, his voice growing louder with conviction, “The only direction we can ever move in is forward. And I have no intention of lettin’ any of this stop us.”

Hosea calms a fraction, his eyes training on the poster in Dutch’s hands as Arthur focuses on the floorboards below.

You look to Dutch, about as cautious as you are unconvinced. Dutch knows this as he sighs, looking older than his years.

“You can believe me, or you can doubt me, but all I ask is that you put enough trust in me to see us through. This... this is bigger than us. But that doesn’t mean it’s _better_ than us... We’ve been doin’ this our whole lives, us three. We’ve done so much together, and we’ve always made it through... And as for you, Ms. Broce,” Dutch stares at you, his dark irises unwavering, “we have no intention of lettin’ this treat you any different.”

Frowning, you turn your head as you adjust yourself on your crutch, your leg burning. You scrunch your face some, your attention moving from Hosea as he begins to speak to the pain in your injured thigh.

It distracts you, that is until you feel a hand move to your back.

“Here, come on.”

“What for?”

“I can tell your leg is botherin’ you. That wince of yours is as plain as day,” huffing, you allow him to guide you towards the chair from the small of your back.

He guides you to the chair you’d been sitting in before as Dutch and Hosea speak to one another, a bit calmer than before, but still just as tense. If anything, the only improvement is there isn’t any shouting this time.

You expect Arthur to leave your side, but he doesn’t. He crouches beside you, taking your crutch to set it against the table and then he looks to you, his eyes searching over your face.

Blushing some, you ask, “Why are you lookin’ at me like that?”

Arthur sighs, and he runs a hand down his face. His skin is still tinted red from the cold, and his voice is just as chilled.

“I’m just... I don’t like this. Not one bit.”

“It’s not ideal, no.”

“Far from it,” the man grumbles, his gaze darkening for a second until it moves back to you, “I’m sorry I dragged you into this...”

You narrow your eyes, slightly parting your lips in disbelief as you start to shake your head, “I dragged myself into this. And if remember correctly, you did everythin’ you could to drag me back out of it.”

Arthur doesn’t look at you, almost as though he isn't able to, “I should’ve done more... This— Dutch can paint this as pretty as he wants, but the reality is, we’re gonna have lawmen comin’ down on our heads. And not good ones. This ain’t just tryin’ to outrun a sheriff, Wolf.”

“If you’re tryin’ to scare me, I’d appreciate it if you’d drop the effort...”

“I’m not, I promise... I wouldn’t do that to you. But I won’t lie to you, neither,” his hand grips onto the arm of the chair, and his glove strains as he tightens his vice, “I don’t know what we’re gonna do. Not now with us headin’ in the wrong direction, and we got barely any money to get us back where we need to go... The east... It’s like you said. Not ideal.”

His words are sour, and you try to ignore how Dutch and Hosea grow in volume, their argument reheating as you look into Arthur’s eyes.

“I can’t lie to you, either. I can’t say that I’m not afraid, or that I’m not just as lost as you are. All this— I never imagined this happenin’ to me. None of this. I can’t say that it’s okay. And there’s not much I can do about it except learn to live with it,” you breathe, and you take your hand, covering Arthur’s with it, and feeling it go lax after a moment of your touch, “It’s like you said. We can only move on.”

Arthur nods, and he waits a few moments before pulling away.

You watch as he stands, illuminated by lantern and firelight, his green eyes plagued as he turns to Dutch and Hosea.

“How soon can we get off this mountain?”

Dutch and Hosea quiet, looking to the younger man and peeking out of the corners of their eyes at one another, considering the question before Hosea takes over.

“There’s still a good bit of snow around the wagons, so it might be a few days before we can really push through.”

“We can’t wait that long. Not with the storm havin’ broke,” Arthur tells him, “It was the only thing that kept the Pinkertons and god knows what else off our trail. They’ve probably been headin’ up this way as soon as it cleared.”

Dutch’s face grows dark, and steps forward, “Then what are we supposed to do, Arthur? We’re on this mountain till the wagons thaw.”

“Not if we dig ‘em out,” Arthur says, looking between both men, “We can start now, get precious time back to head down into the heartlands as we intend.”

At the suggestion, Dutch loses some of his edge. His eyes crinkle, and he rubs at his chin with his hand, considering it.

Across from him, Arthur waits expectantly, already glancing towards the door as though he were about to go start doing so himself.

“I... I suppose that could work,” Dutch murmurs after another long pause, “Get the boys and get to it. If this gets the wagons out to where we can pull them, we can be gone come mornin’. Hosea,” he looks to the older man then, “Go tell Pearson and Grimshaw to start packin’. The sooner we get this over with and off this damn mountain, the better.”

Their leader goes to leave, heading towards the door as he puts his hat onto his head with one hand, while his other readies his lantern.

Arthur raises his chin at Dutch as he opens the door, the cold wind seeping in and biting your skin, “What about you?”

“I’m going to pay our little O’Driscoll a visit... He’s been starvin’ and freezin’ for a few days now, so I figure now is the best time as any. ‘Specially if we’re about to move somewhere a bit comfier for his mouth to stay shut.”

Arthur hums, rubbing his chin, “Best get to it then.”

The black of Dutch’s frock jacket contrasts against the deep snow as he pushes through it, holding up his lantern, the orange light guiding him as departs.

The door slams shut behind him with finality, and with it comes a sigh from Arthur. Pivoting, he faces Hosea, motioning his gloved hand towards you.

“Make sure she rests that leg.”

Going to stand, wincing with the strain, you grit, “Arthur—”

“You’re stir crazy, I know,” he murmurs, meeting your attempt at ire with his cool understanding, “But you ain’t gonna be doin’ much but healin’ for a while yet.”

You huff, going back into your chair as Hosea nods in agreement.

“It’s only for a while yet, Ms. Broce,” the old man encourages as he beams at you, putting his jack over his shoulders and placing his blue stalker onto his head, “Just think, we’ll be down in the heartlands where it’s warmer, and you’ll soon be givin’ us a run for our money.”

As they both head to the door to go out into the accumulations of snow and expectations, you pout, crossing your arms and mumbling, “Definitely would’ve preferred gettin' shot over this...”

That makes Hosea laugh, and Arthur shakes his head at you.

“I’ll be back once the troops are gathered,” Hosea tells you, his mirth slipping into his voice, “Shan’t be long.”

“Trust me, I’ve gotten damn good at waitin’. So good, in fact, I can wait on waitin’, since it’s all I ever do anymore.”

Hosea chuckles again, and he pats Arthur on the shoulder as they open the door and head out, “You sure know how to pick ‘em.”

“Shut up...”

You look away, your eyes landing on the fire as you hear the door close behind them.

And now, you are all alone.

All of this... It’s... It’s daunting.

You, wanted dead or alive, with a five-thousand-dollar bounty on your head. And running and keeping company with a gang as you have.

That you have killed a man, in cold blood. Avenging him or not. Nothing could take back the bullet you fired into Francis, and all the trouble it’s caused you.

You father— what would he do if he saw you know? If he found out what has become of you?

The daughter he raised to keep herself clean, to be a citizen and not a criminal.

Running a hand along your thigh, you feel the deep sting from where Francis had sunk his knife into you. Where the blade separated the flesh, and now, from where it’s trying to put itself back together again. It’s a mess, looking as awful as it feels, as damning as its implications.

Torn in two you were, between the person you were raised to be, and the person you want to be.

And with who you are quickly becoming, it turns out that you are neither of them.

 

 

**\---**

Far too soon for anyone’s liking, you all clambered into the backs of wagons. However, everyone’s moods were improving, as the snow was cleared enough overnight to force your departure from the mountains.

Colter, while it did last you all through the storm, was in no way fit for anything else. And you can only feel gratefulness as you begin to head down through the valley, and towards something more than just the crumbling remains of a former mining town.

It’s almost as though leaving were a panacea to everyone’s misery, as the entire mood of the gang lifts the moment the snow begins to thin on the ground and give way to browned grass and frozen dirt.

“It feels so long since I’ve even seen anything green,” Mary-Beth says longingly, “But after all of that white, I suppose brown is still a mark of improvement.”

Riding afterward is easier, both on the soul, and the horses. The lack of snow now means that the wagons move without issue, and soon, the caravan begins to pick up speed as they head further into the heartlands of the east.

This time, they left the canvas over the wagon down, offering you a full view as the land slowly shifts and changes into livelier woodsy areas. And when you see your first rabbit grazing on freshly sprouted dandelions, your heart nearly weeps.

It’s been a long while since you have been this far east. In fact, the last time was when you were younger and with your father, and to see it after so long after the hell that was Blackwater and Colter, you feel like, maybe, for the first time since all of that mess, that things are finally starting to look up.

And they are, as the sun hangs over in the middle of the sky, bright despite the overcast as Charles pulls your wagon into a woodsy clearing.

You’re not the first to arrive, as others are already starting to set up camp, and the girls quickly hop out of the back.

Karen and Tilly dance around in circles with one another, while Mary-Beth lies down on the ground, laughing and running her fingers through the dark blades of grass that rise about her.

It all helps grow the smile that stretches your lips, and you take a deep breath.

The air is fresh, and light. It’s nowhere near as cold or harsh like in the Grizzlies, despite the slight nip it carries.

You feel more at ease then you have in days, even as you feel the back of the wagon dip with the added weight of someone else.

You can’t be bothered to turn and face them just yet, turning your face to what sun filters down past the clouds.

“You look ‘bout like a cat, the way you sun yourself.”

Playfulness tinges your smile as you peek with one eye, catching Arthur as he stops right in front of you, no longer clad in his shotgun coat. Instead, he’s wearing a worn, tan one you’ve never seen as he leans down, obviously humored with you.

“Hmm. Kinda understand why they do it now.”

That gets a slight chuckle from the man, and you exhale before facing him expectantly.

“Here to offer the poor damsel a hand?”

“Think we already had a bridge to cross with you bein’ called a damsel,” he points out, stretching his palm out to you.

Snickering, you grab ahold of his hand, allowing him to lift you up some.

The long ride has left your leg stiff, and even with the crutch, you don’t make it too far with the way the muscle pulls sourly, and your foot feels like it’s being poked with hundreds of needles.

“Think I need to stretch some first,” you huff as you reach the back of the wagon, eyeing the ground hesitantly.

Arthur nods, humming, “Here, lemme get ya sittin’, at least.”

With his help, the outlaw positions you to where your legs hang off the end of the wagon and towards the ground. Your thigh is against the wood, horizontal still in a way that has the pins and needles feeling subsiding some as he finishes moving you.

“Better?”

“Much.”

The outlaw sits beside you, letting out a deep sigh as he sets his hands onto his knees as the camp bustles around you both, with Ms. Grimshaw already running after the girls, and Pearson directing which way the tents were to be set up.

“So,” you start, looking to the surrounding alcove of trees and pursing your lips, “Here we are.”

“Here we are,” Arthur repeats, “Think that calls for a little celebration.”

Your gaze shifts to him, and it widens as you take in the sight of two brown bottles in his hands.

“Beer? Really Arthur?” he looks a bit concerned for a moment, as though he expects rejection when you add, “Thought you learned I’m more of a whiskey fan.”

He laughs, the sound as charming as it is warming, “I’ll try to remember that next time.”

Snickering, you take the bottle nevertheless, and you pop off the metal cap with a satisfying pop. Arthur does the same, quickly opening his beer and then looking to you, his bottle held out to yours.

“Think we should do a toast, don’t you think?”

With a smirk, you tilt your head at him, “For what?”

“That we managed to get here, after all that mess back west,” he explains, his eyes alight, and he almost seems childishly giddy as he talks.

“I don’t even know where _here_ is, really.”

“We’re a little ways from Valentine, that’s just up the road,” Arthur pivots some, turning his torso so he can point in the direction of town before he faces you again, “This here is Horseshoe Overlook.”

As you look over to where the trees thin and the land cuts off into a sharp drop, offering a spectacular view of the hills in the distance and all of their plentiful life, you nod and face back towards the outlaw.

“It’s gorgeous. But then again, anythin’ could be, as long as it weren’t snowed in.”

“Hence the toast,” he explains, tipping his bottle to yours.

You raise a brow, “You sure we gotta toast?”

“It’s bad luck to propose one and not go through with it. And I dunno about you, but we’ve had more bad luck than anythin’ else as of late. But it’s your call.”

Rolling your eyes, you give in and clink your bottle to his.

“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Arthur teases as he brings the bottle back to himself, and close enough to where he can steal a quick sip before continuing, “Say, we may be headin’ further east, but... I think this is gonna be good for us.”

You take a sip yourself, nodding before you swallow, “I don’t think any of this has panned out how he wanted or expected it to, but, as long as I don’t go into the Grizzlies any time soon, I don’t think I’ll quite mind.”

“I share the sentiment.”

With your free hand, your rub at your right thigh, your attention moving to everyone as they bustle around.

“So, what do we do now?”

“Set up camp, get situated. The rest usually goes from there,” Arthur informs you, “There’ll be more to do soon, but I reckon your leg should be gettin' better before we get to have all the fun.”

“It better be.”

“It will,” he assures, “It all will, given time.”

Downing another mouthful of your beer, you regard the outlaw, “Think that’s all we need?”

“Well,” he murmurs, rubbing at his thickened stubble with his fingers and scratching at his skin, “We ain’t got money, nor a way back west as of yet, so... I reckon time is about all we got now.”

As you look out towards the hills of the heartlands, with the gang attempting to settle around you, you try to find the bright side in such a concept and struggling.

Especially with the gang as it is. With Dutch as he is.

Breathing softly, you drink some more before uttering your reply.

“Suppose we’ll just have to wait it out and see.”

You expect that to be it, but as you hear a clearing throat, you turn your head to see the outlaw staring at you.

Offering his bottle to you once more, Arthur proposes another toast, "To things gettin' better," he says.

Cautiously, you bring your bottle back up to his, lightly clacking the glass together as you make sure to add, "And to them stayin' that way."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vHrZ6hIKcqM&t=1251s


	6. Chapter II — Horseshoe I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Why are you here, Lobo?” Javier asks, “Thought your leg was keeping you in camp.” 
> 
> “Well, I wanted to get out, and this was my best shot."
> 
> Javier looks like he's going to say something else when your attention snaps over to a loud crash, and to where you see Bill punch a man in the face at the front of the saloon.
> 
> “And of course, I picked the perfect time.” 
> 
> As others in the saloon gear up for the fight, you look over to Arthur who drinks his shot and smiles. 
> 
> “Showtime, I suppose.” 
> 
> You’re about to ask what Arthur means by that when he goes straight into it, walking straight over to a man and lobbing him square in the jaw without a moment's hesitation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hahaha. I'm tired.
> 
> So here we are. Finally in Horseshoe.
> 
> I had to pick and choose with a few happenings here in this chapter, and I guess it's mellow in comparison to other chapters so far, but there is a lot to go down both with my plot and the in-game canon! I'm sure we will be playing around in Horseshoe for a while yet.
> 
> That being said, I am considering bumping my average to 25k a chapter depending on what goes on, just because there is so much in store for all the shenanigans in this chapter.
> 
> I plan on having a day where I respond to every unanswered comment here on AO3 with this fic (I'm awful I knowwwww) so stay tuned for that as well!
> 
> Otherwise, hope you all enjoy the read!~

## CHAPTER 2:

## HORSESHOE OVERLOOK

——— 

###  **A FEW WEEKS LATER. . .**

The Heartlands was something else.

A sprawling land, open and vast, something that wasn’t often seen in this side of the country.

Plains open and sweeping at one moment, and then rolling hills or jutting cliffs with valleys cutting through at the next. Rivers ran live veins, intertwining and pulsing through each mile, only further breathing life into the land.

Here, it was plentiful. Nothing like Colter, it all held within the suffocating vice of cold and snow. It flourished on these lands, teeming with animation at every moment.

Despite the nip in the air and the chill that was swept down from the mountains off in the immediate distance, down here in the Heartlands near Valentine, it was the first time that the Van Der Linde gang felt just as alive as the land since the tragedy of Blackwater.

It has been a little over a month that the gang has settled down here, in a small alcove up the road from the small, dismal livestock town. Hidden as they were, and a good bit from Colter and the hell it wrought, the gang seemed to warm up from the thaw and gained back a little of their spark.

For the first time since Blackwater, worry did not plague them like a disease. Things felt breathable here, they felt alive. Unlike in Colter, it didn’t feel as though everything and everyone was one moment away from demise— be it from the looming overcast of the Pinkertons, or the blizzard that overstayed itself with every fresh gust and inch of snow.

Despite the fact that Sean and Mac were still missing. Apart from losing Jenny and Davey.

And with Lenny and Micah yet to return from being sent out by Dutch a few days prior.

At Horseshoe, things felt, dare you to say it, like they were looking up for the first time in a long while.

Sighing, you rub at your thigh from your chair at the edge of camp, looking out over the lands that sprawl before you as the early morning light tints the air and land a dark, undefined blue.

A few crickets still sing, despite the time and the chill in the air, and you close your eyes, breathing in and enjoying their song before you go back to gazing.

The crackle of the campfires behind you don’t mask the soft sound of boots and their spurs as someone comes up from behind you, and the corner of your lips tick upward as you hear a familiar voice.

“Enjoyin’ the mornin’, are ya? Didn’t think you’d be up at an hour like this...”

“I’m enjoyin’ the quiet, mostly. While everyone— well, almost everyone— is asleep,” your words are humored as Arthur comes up beside you, lighting a cigarette and casting his face in a contrasting orange glow until the end singes, taken with flame, “This is one of the few times I can really think.”

Finishing his first drag, Arthur blows smoke out of his mouth away from you, and pins you with a soft look as his lips rise in the corners, “What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?”

“Just about our time up here, about how much better things are now,” you murmur, wrapping the blanket you have wrapped around yourself a bit tighter, “For the first time since the ferry robbery, I feel... like we’re gonna do okay. Or have a shot of it, at least.”

Itching through his growing beard, his fingers all about disappearing in his new length of scruff, Arthur nods, tapping the end of his cigarette to knock off the spent bit, “Things do seem to be lookin’ up. But, it’s not easy to have us thinkin’ even the dimmest of outlooks is a light in the dark after all that mess back west.”

You hum in agreement, and watch as the sun finally appears, casting the river and the land in a faint shade of yellow as it rises.

As you rub your thigh, you hear Arthur move a bit closer.

Softly, he asks, “How’s your leg doin’?”

“Better,” moving your hand to your lap, you look back to the outlaw as he smokes, “I can finally stand without that crutch Charles gave me, but I have a while yet before it’ll be normal.”

Nodding, Arthur exhales before nodding towards the appendage, “Grimshaw took the stitches out a few days ago, didn’t she?”

“Yeah. ‘Prolly why it’s so tender, as it is.”

Kicking some dirt with his boot, Arthur mutters, “Well, just glad that didn’t get infected or nothin’. I was worried for a bit. That it would. Wound like that has cost people limbs.”

“Well, fortunately, it didn’t with me,” you assure him, and with your affirmation, he looks back out onto the valley below, his gaze a bit stern despite your kindness, “I should be fine, Arthur.”

“I know,” he murmurs, now casting his gaze down to his feet, “Just... glad you are.”

“My, Arthur, you sound ecstatic.”

“No, I am, just—” he sighs, tossing his unfinished cigarette to the ground and crushing it under his boot, “Don’t like you bein’ hurt...”

A flutter lightens your chest, and your lips stretch fondly.

But, when you open your mouth to say something, the moment is cut short by the sound of a thundering gallop nearing camp.

Arthur instantly straightens, immediately walking towards the front side of camp as he brings his hands down to his colt at his side.

Standing too, you walk briskly behind him, your slight limp not slowing you any.

It’s Karen, coming in from where she was on watch, as she calls out, “Everyone, it’s Lenny!”

You see Lenny coming in on Maggie, his Mustang, breathing heavily and about falling off the saddle, as though he’d seen a ghost.

“Kid, you alright?” Arthur asks as the others in camp begin to stir at the commotion, “And as much as I hate to ask, where’s Micah?”

“They— they tried to _lynch_ me, Arthur, I barely got away—”

“Whoa whoa whoa, slow down there, kid,” Arthur steadies Lenny with one hand, and talks calmly at him, “Just, start at the beginnin’.”

“It was Micah. Bastard went crazy, up in Strawberry!” Lenny shakes his head, looking as infuriated as he is shambled, “Dutch sent us out a few days ago, scoutin’ just in case the Pinkertons managed to follow us down the valley and into the Heartlands. But instead, he went straight into town, ‘bout half-drunk before we even got there. I kept askin’ him what we was doin’, but he kept tellin’ me, _oh, you talk too much, kid,_ or just trust me and stop talkin’, kid. You know how he is!”

Arthur nods as you snicker at Lenny’s impressions, “That I unfortunately do.”

“He starts drinkin’ away— and this is a dry town we’re supposed to be in, mind you! But he manages to get drinks as well as findin’ some man he knew. They start talkin’ and drinkin’ even more, laughin’ away. Things was goin’ fine until suddenly they’re arguing, and Micah—”

“Just shoots him in the blink of an eye and kills him,” Arthur finishes, shaking his head as Lenny nods, “God, what a dumb bastard...”

“I have no idea why he did it! And despite it bein’ a small town, the law came in on us like nothin’ else! They managed to get Micah, and they about got me too. But I managed to get away, rode here as soon as I could once I got the law off my tail. But Micah— Arthur, there’s talk of hangin’ him.”

Arthur snorts, hooking his thumbs on his belt as he shares a look with you, “Here’s hopin’.”

“Arthur!”

You and Arthur pivot to where Dutch, dressed in his usual, opulent attire despite the early hour, is coming up behind you both, his face pinched as he looks at the outlaw beside you.

“What, Dutch? He just did this to himself. Seems fitting they wanna hang him, with what he did.”

As Dutch stops beside Arthur, he scowls, “Last I checked, most of us rarely behave either. You know that.”

Narrowing his gaze, Arthur’s voice darkens a bit, “Yeah, well, you also know my feelings about him...”

“Listen, I would do whatever I could to make you two get along, but until then, I need you to go get Micah and spare him from that noose.”

Arthur’s eyes widen some, and he looks between the man and Lenny, “You want me to go save him? After he made a mess like that in Strawberry for no damn good reason?”

“I’d go myself, but my face is posted all over West Elizabeth! I would do nothin’ more than make an even bigger mess, if that’s what you’re worried about!” deflating some, Dutch continues, “Please, Arthur... If your neck was on the line, he would do the same for you.”

Shaking his head and waving a hand in dismissal, Arthur mutters, “I doubt he would, but... alright. But he’ll owe me. Big time.”

“That he will,” Dutch says with an underlying promise in his voice, “Now, go take Lenny into town. Get his mind off this. Get him drunk, long as you don’t shoot up this town too. Javier, Charles, and Bill are already down at the saloon, so I’m sure there will be enough trouble with those fools already...”

“We’d sure love the company,” Arthur jests.

“Well, if you’re so inclined, why don’t you take Ms. Broce with you?”

Looking to you, Arthur tilts his head, eyeing you from under the brim of his hat, “Long as she’s okay with it, I don’t see a problem.”

You swallow, murmuring, “I... Guess I could come along. Been cooped up too long here with this damn leg of mine.”

“Well, sounds like the perfect opportunity to spread your poor wings,” Dutch turns, starting towards his tent and waving his hand dismissively, “Now, go on. Get that boy’s head on straight by gettin' him loose. Worry about gettin' Micah once things settle a bit there in town. A bit of waitin’ should hopefully let him know _none_ of us took kindly to his actions.”

Arthur huffs, and as he goes to leave with Lenny, Dutch pauses and calls to him.

“Oh, and Arthur,” the outlaw pivots, and Dutch allows a tired expression to pull at his features as he looks between you three, “Please don’t invest in any funny business.”

“Ah, Dutch, I’ve given that up,” Arthur jokes.

Dutch rolls his eyes and disappears into the confines of his tent.

“Well, it’s a bit early, but if anything, it’s a good head start.”

Looking towards Arthur as you three head over to the horses, you scowl, “Head start to what?”

“Drinkin’, of course. It’s what Dutch is sendin’ us to do.”

Frowning, you stop next to D’or as Arthur reaches his Walker, “Is drinkin’ really gonna help with things?”

“Probably not,” Arthur comments, hopping up onto his colt as he looks to you and Lenny while he remounts Maggie, “But, as long as it keeps me from helpin’ Micah, I ain’t got a problem with it.”

Nodding in agreement, you go to mount on D’or, wincing a bit but managing the feat just fine.

Arthur watches you, making sure you’re okay before you’re settled as they are on their horses. Heaving a breath, you nod at him, letting him know you’re ready.

“Alright, seems like we’re about as ready as you can be for a day spent gettin' drunk,” Arthur lifts his Walker’s reins and taps his spurs into his sides.

Attempting to mirror him, you use your left leg to spur D’or as you head out with the two men.

It’s as you’re getting onto the trails leading out of camp that Arthur speaks.

“So, you already seem mightly entertained by the prospect of drinkin’, Ms. Broce.”

“Ain’t ever been much of a drinker,” you admit as you all hit the main road.

Arthur looks to you from where he rides in the middle, with you to his left and Lenny at his right, “That so?”

“Why does it matter?”

“I ain’t judgin’ if that’s what you’re thinkin’... Just... You every get properly drunk?”

Blushing, you pointedly look ahead of you, “I’ve only ever drunk enough to take off the edge, but not enough to warrant the likes of one of Uncle’s stupors.”

Arthur regards Lenny, and they both share a laugh, while you lot stay right once you reach the fork in the road, “Don’t think any of us could warrant somethin’ like that.”

“If you think I’m drinkin’, then you have another thing comin’,” you tut, and their laughter dies down.

Lenny makes a sound of disappointment, “Come on, Ms. Broce! It’s nice to just let things go every once in a while. To just feel good ‘bout things.”

“I don’t need to be drunk to feel that.”

“Maybe not,” he admits, as you both head up the hill and into town, “But a drink is definitely one of the quickest ways to get there.”

You sigh, and you three slow your horses down as you come in on the main road cutting through Valentine.

The air is thick and heavy with the scent of livestock, and it has your nose wrinkling some as you ride past the auction yard and train station.

Following behind Arthur, and Lenny following behind you, you three form a line as you head towards the saloon. And the closer you get, the more you regret agreeing to come along.

D'or throws her head back lightly, picking up on your irritation as you arrive at your destination.

The saloon is lively as you hitch your horses outside, with you and Arthur taking one post, and Lenny hitching Maggie across the road at the hotel. You look towards the swinging doors, hearing the piano playing away wildly inside, barely audible over the roar of the drunken patrons stumbling about. There's a shattering of glass, a roar of laughter and yelling, and a scowl begins to form on your face.

And then, a man stumbles out, pushing the saloon doors apart and looking rather green.

He gets as far as the steps before he’s vomiting in the street.

As he wretches pathetically, you look to Arthur, quirking an accusing brow as you both dismount. The outlaw responds in kind, apathetically rolling his eyes before he looks to you.

“Give him credit, at least it wasn’t in the saloon.”

Shaking your head, you come up the stairs on the side of the saloon with Arthur, passing the sickly drunk man as he collapses against the front porch of the building and groaning as you enter.

Immediately, you spot Javier and Charles at the bar, and you frown at the sight of two... _women_ in their company.

“Ah, seems like we’re all here to have a good time,” Arthur comments as he comes to your side, and you both walk over to them.

The distaste on your face is evident, especially as the women look to you, a bit of scorn in their gaze. You know it’s a mutual thing, with the way you feel an itch in their presence. Especially as one of the girls looks to Arthur, and her eyes light up in a way that sets your teeth on edge.

“Oh, now ain’t you a sight to see,” she purrs with a smile.

To your surprise, Arthur ignores her comment, and instead looks to Charles and Javier, “Where’s Bill?”

“Ah, now that ain’t no way to treat a lady, mister,” she and the other girl abandon Javier and Charles, coming in on Arthur and forcing you to step back with how they crowd him, “How ‘bout we get a room and we can see what you can really do?”

Your blood boils then, and you watch as the one with the red hair pushes her breasts up against Arthur, while the one with the black braid dances her fingers up his forearm.

But before you explode or do anything in reaction to their assault, Arthur does the honors.

He steps back as he places his arms out, keeping both women at an explicit distance as he smiles at them, the expression far from friendly.

“Think I’d rather avoid treatin’ myself with a tonic after beddin’ one of you,” he says plainly, even shrugging some, “Figure I’d spend more on that than what you’d charge me.”

Your jaw drops, and the girls step away in disgust at Arthur’s outburst.

“Why I never!” the redhead hisses, and she steps away with her friend.

Both Javier and Charles look after them, with Javier longingly commenting, “Sure know how to talk to the ladies, Arthur.”

Arthur approaches the bar with you at his side, asking for a shot by tapping the bar and gripping the small glass as soon as it’s slid to him.

“I’m a real charmer, I know.”

You laugh lightly at his joke, and Javier and Charles look to you.

“Why are you here, Lobo?” Javier asks, “Thought your leg was keeping you in camp.”

“Well, I wanted to get out, and this was my best shot."

Javier looks like he's going to say something else when your attention snaps over to a loud crash, and to where you see Bill punch a man in the face at the front of the saloon.

“And of course, I picked the perfect time.”

As others in the saloon gear up for the fight, you look over to Arthur who drinks his shot and smiles.

“Showtime, I suppose.”

You’re about to ask what Arthur means by that when he goes straight into it, walking straight over to a man and lobbing him square in the jaw without a moment's hesitation.

You’re taken aback as Lenny joins you, leaning against the counter as he nurses his beer and watches the brawl as it breaks out into the saloon.

“This is supposed to convince me that this all was a good idea?”

“We’re deep country folk and not good ones at that. This is how we let loose, Ms. Broce.”

You huff, your eyes tracking Arthur as he knocks one man out and moves on to the next, helping out Charles from where he was held within a chokehold, “Well, do take this kindly when I say it, but you all must be the most pressed individuals I’ve met if this is what is pent up.”

Chuckling, Lenny brings his beer up to his lips, “Can’t get offended if it’s the truth.”

You watch at the bar alongside Lenny as the boys clear the bar, your eyes mainly focused on Arthur.

You can admit, you’ve seen the man fight before, but not with his fists. Not like this.

The man is almost a machine with how he moves, dodging most hits and dishing out the worst of his own. He straight knocked out a few men with one punch, and your eyes are wide at how he grins in the mess of it all, his hair wild and falling into his face from where his hat had fallen off sometime during the fight.

At one point, a man in particular grabs a chair, attempting to hit Arthur across the back with the piece of furniture. You wince as you hear the crack of wood, but relief soon follows as you realize Arthur managed to dodge the assault last second.

And then, he returns the favor, hitting the man hard enough that his nose snaps similarly.

It’s a sight to see, that’s for sure, and the fight is just about finished when there are thunderous steps coming from down the stairs.

“Now, Tommy, you just stay up there!”

You look towards the staircase, noticing a man taller and bigger than you’ve ever seen.

His rugged face is drawn up in a deep scowl, his lips barely visible through his beard as he comes down the last of the steps, his hands already turned to fists as he takes in the last few participants of the fight. His thick chest rises and falls past his unbuttoned shirt as he breathes like a bull, seeing red as he takes stock of them.

Now, it’s just Arthur and another guy still going, and before Arthur can deliver the finishing blow, the man, Tommy, comes forward and grabs harshly onto his shoulder.

Arthur’s eyes widen as he takes in the size of the man, and you can see him mutter a curse as Tommy shoves him towards one of the tables.

You have to press against the bar to avoid getting in the crossfires of the two men as Tommy storms past you and Lenny.

And as Arthur attempts to stand, Tommy grabs from where he rolled over the top of the table, just to push him through the window.

“Arthur!” you shout.

The glass panes shatter entirely as Arthur crashes through them, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to shove the saloon doors open to follow him outside.

“Come on, pretty boy!” Tommy's deep timber roars as you rush outside alongside everyone else.

“Pretty boy?” Arthur echoes, accosted as he stands from where he landed in the street, his clothes and face now covered in mud as townsfolk gather around to watch their fight, “Really? _Pretty boy!?”_

You swallow thickly as Tommy brings up his clenched fist, aiming towards Arthur with a forceful swing. The outlaw manages to dodge most of the hit, but it clips him in the shoulder, and he winces as he slightly stumbles back.

Tommy doesn’t wait for him to recoup, coming back again with another blow and landing it on Arthur’s jaw with a sickening sound. Your stomach sinks, even as Arthur pulls away, his bottom lip split and already bleeding. With a wild and dangerous look growing in his eyes, the outlaw flexes the split skin with his tongue as he hisses.

A few townsfolk behind you begin betting on who they foresee to be the victor, with two men arguing about Tommy, about how massive and strong he is. Apparently, the town's best fighter, compared to the stranger he's currently farcing with.

While Tommy is a force to be reckoned with, you know that Arthur is too. While he may physically be smaller than Tommy, the man was nowhere near weak. Not with the way he laid so many men back in the saloon out with one fateful swing.

But, Arthur is also quick.

Unlike Tommy, who moves heavily, Arthur is faster. And he uses that to his advantage, working his feet just right to have Tommy slip around in the mud in his attempt to follow, and surging forth with a couple of swings to his stomach.

Gasping, Tommy leans down in response, almost doubling over, and Arthur takes the chance to knock him upside the jaw with a hard hit before the man is able to gather himself.

But, it’s like ice water, getting Tommy back into the moment as he shakes his head, his eyes widening as he grits his teeth. Making a growling noise, he marches towards Arthur with an angry glint in his eye.

The townsfolk continue to cheer, gathered around the two men who are fighting in the street.

At your side, Lenny remains quiet, and he doesn’t drink. Instead, he watches on with a concerned expression, just as Javier and Charles do.

“Did you need help with this guy?” Javier asks from the crowd.

As Arthur and Tommy circle around one another, you watch as Arthur’s face draws up in a serious scowl, one of the sourest and most feral expressions you’ve seen him make.

“Nah, I got this bastard!”

Tommy makes the first move, rushing forward and grabbing Arthur by the waist to slam him into the ground.

You physically wince at the sound of Arthur being forced down into the mud, and you watch as Tommy starts to beat him. He gets about two or three hits in before Arthur really begins to struggle, thrashing from underneath him and trying to snake his way out as he braces his forearms around his head.

The cries from the crowd around them grow in volume, especially as Arthur manages to get back the upper hand, using his knee to knock Tommy off balance to where he flips them over.

Tommy now lays in the mud, and Arthur beats him senseless, his fists coming down as harshly as they blur with speed.

And, you hear the familiar, sickening crack of Tommy’s nose as Arthur keeps going.

He raises his fists once more, his knuckles as bloody and bruised as Tommy’s battered face when a frail man splits through the crowd.

“Stop! Please, stop!”

Your eyes move to the stranger as Arthur stalls, regarding the man himself as he comes forward, looking to Tommy with a disheartened expression.

“You won the fight,” he says, his expression as grave as his voice is pleading as he passes over a cough, “Ain’t that enough, mister? Can't you see this is done?”

Arthur breaths heavily, his chest heaving as he regards the crowd, his eyes landing on you and realizing you have been watching this entire time.

Hissing, he breaks his gaze as he stands, moving back and cursing as the man moves over Tommy, and begins to mutter a small prayer.

Murmuring, the crowd begins to break up in disappointment, but you come forward, looking to Arthur with a pinched expression as you take in the state of him.

“Arthur,” you stop right in front of him as he looks to you, your voice as breathless as it is worried, “Are you alright?”

He’s covered in mud, from head to toe and then some. But despite it cloying onto his skin, you see the contrast of his eyes and pained smile through the grit.

“Best as I can be, after all that.”

Before you can express any further concern though, a new, accented voice speaks up from the side.

“And to think, I thought you were above acts of this nature after the fuss you caused in Blackwater.”

At those words, Arthur turns, and the rest of the men come around you both as a new one approaches.

His hair is slicked back with pomade, his mustache also styled, the raven-colored locks twisted into two clean curls as he regards you lot. He holds his top hat in his hand as he places his cane in front of him, smirking, especially as his eyes land on you.

“Oh, and I see you’ve garnered yourself a new stray.”

“Josiah Trelawny,” Arthur chuckles then, stepping over to the porch of the saloon to sit down, rubbing at his jaw a little with a wince before continuing, “Been a while since I’ve seen you slippin’ about. Dutch was gettin' worried.”

“Ah yes, work has kept me busy, I’m afraid,” as Josiah steals a glance to you again, “Though, I do envision that I will be around for a little while yet.”

Arthur studies the exchange, frowning faintly before biting out, “Why are you here, anyway? Thought you were off runnin’ gold schemes more westward than this.”

“Ah now, Arthur, is that any way to greet an old friend?” Josiah jests, and at Arthur’s growing scowl, he breathes out and tilts his head, “But if you’re so inclined to ask as _politely_ as you have, I was actually on my way to see Dutch. I have information on your beloved Irishman, Sean.”

Arthur and the others perk at that, and Javier takes a step forward, asking, “What do you know?”

“During my travels in West Elizabeth, I happened to hear about where he’s ended up after the ruckus you lot caused over that ferry, and you apparently escaped further east. But, he’s still back in Blackwater I’m afraid, and not in a good way,” as Arthur curses and puts his muddy face in his hand, Josiah elaborates, “Bounty hunters got ahold of him after you lot ran here. They intended on keeping him as a hostage until they can garner the best price for his head.”

“With how much Sean talks, they’ll be lucky to get a good price unless they gag him or bring him in unconscious,” Arthur snarks.

Chuckling, Josiah shakes his head, “That may be true, but we do have a small grace of luck. I also overhead what their current plans are. They are about to move further up the Upper Montana River. They intend to start transferring him to one of the state prisons in the next few days or so, last I heard.”

“God, is it sad I’m havin’ to consider rescuin’ him too?” Arthur regards you all as he rolls his jaw with a wince.

At his question, Charles shrugs, snorting, “I think all of us would have to consider it before we agreed.”

Shaking his head, Arthur sighs, setting his hands down onto his knees tiredly, “Well, thanks for tellin’ us, Josiah.”

“Oh, the pleasure is all mine,” Josiah bows lightly towards the muddy outlaw before turning back to you, and he takes a few steps forward in your direction, much to your surprise, “But dare I say, I have not had the pleasure of meeting you, miss.”

The air immediately shifts. It’s almost as though a nasty storm is overhead; and with the way it feels dense and ominous, it’s about to let loose.

Swallowing, you take a sharp breath, and you don’t miss the way the others look at Josiah oddly.

Especially Arthur, whose head is turned towards you both, his eyes squinted as he leans back just a little as he watches the situation unfold.

Blinking, you part your lips as you gauge the man, taking in the growing animosity from the porch of the saloon as Josiah slinks up to you.

And in the midst of it all, you respond weakly, “Ah, well... Guess you’re meetin’ me now.”

“May I have the pleasure of also knowing your name?”

“Ms. Broce,” you tell him mutely, squinting your eyes at him as he beams at you.

“Well, Ms. Broce, I must say, it is a rare thing to come across a beauty such as yourself.”

Before Josiah can continue with his version of pleasantries, Arthur gruffly comes between you two.

You step back some as the outlaw wedges his body between you both, his hands balled into loose fists at his sides, and his back tense as you try to peer around his shoulder at Josiah.

The man cowers a little at Arthur’s approach, taking a few steps in the opposite direction of him and clearing his throat delicately, eyeing the man as Arthur separates him from you.

And when he speaks, his voice is downright cutting.

“Alright, Josiah, that’s enough.”

The man frowns at Arthur, and you make a face towards the back of his head as the other man speaks, “Arthur, there’s no need to be so rude—”

“He’s got a family. In Saint Denis,” Arthur tells you, his eyes never leaving Josiah and his voice as gritty as it is seething, “A wife, two boys. He doesn’t tend to get homesick, it seems.”

Gaping at Arthur’s words, you witness when Josiah’s face falls. His eyes become tenebrous, and all the charm the man has crumbles and withers out in light of Arthur’s words. And with his former false bravado now stripped from him, he eyes his shoes in shame.

As this happens, Javier and Charles pretend to ignore the tension, with Javier whistling away, and Charles using his boot to kick at dried mud on the wood below.

Meanwhile, Lenny downs half of his bottle of beer, now looking rather eager to get himself drunk.

“Well. Seems as though I’ve overstayed my welcome,” Josiah says curtly, turning as he places his top hat onto his head, “I’ll be seeing Dutch about Sean. I shouldn't be around long... Javier, Charles, Lenny.”

He bows lightly towards them before walking off, that same cloud from before hanging over him as he goes.

As he leaves, Javier lets his whistle change from his chosen tune to one that sinks, saying, “Could’ve been a bit kinder in the delivery there, Arthur.”

“Man has a family. He should act like it,” Arthur growls without guilt, but he does let up some, growing more haggard as he looks towards the other men, “Javier, Charles, head back to camp. Take Bill with you, if you manage to find him. Last thing we need is any more brawls after this mess he just caused.”

Crossing his arms, Charles' eyes narrow on the man as he asks, “What about you three?”

“We’re here on Dutch’s orders,” Arthur waves a dismissive hand, "It's a long story..."

“Ah. Well, we’ll see you both around then.”

Arthur nods, watching them go back into the bar as Lenny tosses his empty bottle to the ground.

After a moment, Lenny hums, a bit scathed, “Well, I definitely need a few drinks after _that._ ”

“You and me both, kid...”

Lenny shakes his head, laughing, “And you need a bath. You’re a mess, Arthur.”

“Yeah, yeah. Trust me, I feel it too,” Arthur spits onto the road, sighing before he looks to you, “Wolf, could you do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

“On my horse, there’s another set of clothes. Could you bring ‘em to me? I’m gonna take a quick bath at the hotel,” Arthur gestures to it with his thumb, and you nod before he continues, “Lenny, you can go ahead and get a few drinks in. We’ll meet you up once we’re done.”

Lenny bobs his head, saluting loosely, “Will do.”

Sighing, you begin to follow the outlaw as Arthur starts to walk towards the hotel.

A few people still eye you two as you walk across the road, leaving the man to try and help Tommy up from the mud to no avail. You swallow thickly, not enjoying the attention, and the reason for it.

Growling lowly, you ask, “Was all that really necessary?”

“Which part?”

Setting the man with a stern look, you roll your eyes lightly, huffing, “You damn well know which part.”

“I can’t help that Bill is quick to anger. The rest just follows suit,” Arthur says defensively, “And before you go off on me for it, that fight was as clean as they come—”

“I don’t give a damn about that,” you hiss.

Stopping right outside the door of the hotel, Arthur looks at you, growing impatient, “Then what are you—”

“That, back there with Josiah,” you snap, your eyes narrowing on the outlaw, “While his actions weren’t just, there wasn’t no need to snap on him and embarrass him like that—”

“Yes. There was,” Arthur says venomously, but with the way he fumes, with the offense he's taken with it, you’re surprised at how angered he is, “He’s a goddamn brainless, Wolf. Greedy and wantin’ where he shouldn’t be with you. I wanted to hit him, with how much of an idiot he was bein’ back there. That he was talkin’ to you like that, like... like...” he deflates a little, “Like we weren’t even there to hear it.”

It’s unspoken, but still clear without a syllable of it being uttered.

_Like I wasn’t there to hear it._

Your eyes widen at the words, both said and not, and you move your hand out to his shoulder, “Are you... Are you jealous?”

“I—'m not—” Arthur’s scowl deepens as he jerks away from your touch, and hurt crosses his eyes, a pain that is old and no stranger to him, “He’s just a fool, Wolf, ungrateful as he is swindling... That’s all I gotta say.”

Before you can ask Arthur what he means by that, he opens the door to the hotel, and it swings back softly in your face.

Exhaling, you look towards your feet, wondering what kind of fool Josiah was in Arthur's mind.

Still, you do as Arthur asked of you, moving out of the way as a man excuses himself to also enter the hotel. You just head to Arthur’s Walker then, finding the colt across the street and going to his saddlebags to look for the clothes the outlaw had mentioned being packed.

It takes a bit of rifling, but you manage to find it all— a clean pair of brown ranch pants and a faded white everyday shirt. You bundle it all up before heading back across the street.

You enter the hotel, having the man at the desk greet you kindly as you clear your throat.

“There was a man, just came in covered in mud. He needs these,” you lift the clothes at their mention, and the keeper quirks a brow at you, “What room is he in?”

“Down the hall to the left, last door,” he tells you.

You nod in thanks, and head that way. Timidly, you step down the hallway until you reach the door the keep told you about. You can hear some water being splashed around and you knock on the door, your breath growing stagnant in your throat.

“Sorry, I don’t need help.”

You almost chuckle at his words, but you smile faintly as you say, “Arthur, I ain’t no bath maid.”

You hear a light curse in the room, and the sound of Arthur leaving the tub. Swallowing, you can hear his dull footfalls as he approaches the door, and the knob turns, much to your surprise.

Squeaking, you close your eyes as you hear it pull back.

A few seconds of silence pass and your heart thunders in your chest as you hear Arthur clear his throat.

“Uh... Wolf... You can open your eyes.”

Cautiously, you peek one open, and you blush hotly as you only see the door open enough for Arthur’s wet hand to come through, waiting to be given his clothes.

“Oh... I... Here.”

You hand him his pants first, and he grabs onto them, pulling them back and shutting the door. There’s the light sound of him dressing inside of the room, and you bite your bottom lip as you wait.

After a few moments, the door opens again, but this time fully.

You squeak again, not closing your eyes in time for you to miss Arthur greeting you, shirtless and still dripping wet.

It’s natural, for your eyes to follow one droplet that falls from his hair and down onto his collar, tracing the curve of his tan skin until it runs down through his chest hair on his pec. You still chase after it with your gaze, even as it goes further down, across the faint outline of muscles on his abdomen, until it absorbs into the hem of his jeans.

And when he clears his throat, you jump.

“Yes! Your shirt!” you breathe, handing it over to Arthur briskly as your cheeks feel as though they were aflame.

Arthur is smiling warmly at you, chuckling as you want the earth to swallow you then and there. The expression isn’t judgmental, only fond, but it doesn’t stop how you want to just disappear right where you stand.

As he shakes his head lightly, a few more droplets fall from his hair and beard, but you make it a point to not trail them like the first.

“I’ll, uh, be at the saloon,” you tell him awkwardly, “See you there?”

“Sure.”

You nod, and turn abruptly, walking away and feeling your stomach roll on itself as you head out.

As you meet Lenny back at the bar, he’s already a few more bottles in, lightly buzzed as he greets you. He looks so carefree, lighter than he’s been in a while, and since he came back after Micah.

And after the day you’ve had today...

“I’ll get a whiskey,” you tell the bartender, and as he hands you a shot, you down it quickly, ignoring its burn and wallowing in your own pity as Lenny narrows his eyes on you.

“Y-You okay?”

“Think I need to get drunk,” you say, motioning for another refill, “That sounds really good right now.”

“Thought you said you wasn’t gettin' drunk,” he slurs, frowning as you down it again just as quickly as the first.

“Well, I am now.”

Instead of getting another refill, you snatch the bottle away from the bartender and immediately set in on it.

The bartender makes a face but leaves you to it as Lenny eyes you widely.

Each sip burns, but not as much as your cheeks. Not as much as the image of Arthur as it flashes across your eyelids like a damned sunspot, burned into your retinas with no intent on fading away into nothingness any time soon.

And so you drink. And drink. And drink.

By the time Arthur comes back to you both, he finds you both at the end of the bar laughing. You’ve got a good buzz going now, with about half of the whiskey missing out of your now second bottle, while Lenny starts on his new beer as he finishes his story.

“—and so I told h-him,” he hiccups, “ _you_ are the last one to be tellin’ me how to ride a horse when you can’t even handle an ass!”

You giggle giddily as Arthur approaches, feeling the lightest you have in a while as you look over just in time to see Arthur stop at your table.

“Oh, Arthur!” you beam, grinning widely and gesturing towards a few unopened bottles at the table, “You came just in time!”

Arthur’s face pinches as he takes in the opened bottle you have in your hand, and the identical empty one you placed on the table. As his eyes dart back to you, you know he’s just as confused as he is startled at your attempts at inebriation.

“Wolf, are you drunk—”

“Oh, sadly no,” you lament, taking in Arthur’s frown as he sits down in a chair to your side, “But I’m gettin' there!”

Across the table, you and Lenny clink your bottles together, giggling.

Not sold on any of this, Arthur’s scowl deepens as he watches you down another good mouthful of spirits, “Thought you weren’t drinkin’ with us.”

Motioning with his beer and spilling some onto the table, Lenny throws his arms out wide, “That’s what I s-s-said! But then she grabbed the liquor—”

“ _Whiskey,_ ” you correct with some offense.

“—from the bartender and now here are we!”

“He means here we are,” you tell Arthur, and then you squint, pouting lightly, “I think. I dunno.”

Arthur sighs, shaking his head with disappointment, “You two are some sights to see.”

“I ain’t one yet,” you hum, and you down the rest of your bottle in one go.

Setting back the now empty bottle of whiskey with a smile, you look back to Arthur. His eyes are a bit wide, his hand stilled around one of the whiskey bottles you’d asked for in advance.

Before Arthur can take it for himself though, you knock his hand away, pulling it to your chest and uncorking it.

“Sorry, cowboy, but this is my preferred poison.”

“Guess you weren’t kidding when you said you really do like your whiskey,” he comments, watching you from the corners of his eyes as he settles for a beer.

“Oh, that I do, Arthur,” you hum with a smile, settling back in your chair as you feel the rest of it start to hit you, and you close your eyes, “Oh that I do.”

“I’m too s-s-sober for any of this,” Lenny says.

And as you hear Arthur place his bottle back to the table, he laughs, “Don’t think any of us will be here in a bit, just you wait...”

 

**— A L I T T L E W H I L E L A T E R —**

The three of you laugh from the upper floor, leaning against the railing and watching as Lenny knocks his glass down into the saloon below.

As it shatters, you all giggle, treating it like some inside joke.

But then you’re talking. How you got to the topic you don’t know. It feels like one moment you were laughing and now you’re here, and you have a new bottle of whiskey you don’t remember getting.

But Lenny is looking to Arthur, frowning as he tries to get a good grip on his beer bottle and failing, like the glass is water and he is oil with how he struggles, “Hey Arthur, why ain’t you ever married?”

Arthur, now rightfully drunk, pouts, “No one would have me.”

Scoffing, you shake your head, “Ah now, c-come on! But you’re a catch!”

“Am I?” Arthur asks, still looking downtrodden as he looks between both you and Lenny in an almost sheepish way.

“Yeah, Arthur, any lady would be lucky to have ya!” Lenny claps him on the shoulder, “What do you say, B-Broce?”

“Oh yes, I do say, Lenny. Comin’ from a woman such as myself, that means a lot. Bonafide approvement!”

Arthur looks at you, smiling sloppily, “Approvement? What does that even mean?”

“Means exactly what it means!” you glare at him, slightly pouting out your bottom lip, “You know w-what, I think you’re drunk.”

“I think you are too, Wolf. I think you’re even more drunk than me. And coming from a drunk, that is some bonafide approvement right there.”

You wave a hand, “Ah, no I ain’t! I ain’t ever been drunk. That means I can’t get drunk, you letch. Thems the rules.”

“Well, I think you are now. Drunker than a skunk, you is!” Arthur laughs, coming close to you and nearly stumbling into you as he laughs, “How does it feel?”

Laughing, you beam at him, “Great.”

“You know what would feel even better?” he asks, getting really close, your faces mere inches apart.

“And what’s that?” you breathe.

“Come on, I’ll s-show you.”

 

**— L A T E R ? —**

Kicking your legs out, the line dance that you all make is lively and makes your body feel almost weightless.

You hook your arms onto Lenny and Arthur’s shoulders for support, your head having been thrown back with a laugh as you three and other patrons in the saloon dance until you’re so wobbly you about fall over.

And once it breaks, and Arthur hands you another bottle of whiskey, you dive right into it, chasing that same feeling.

 

**— A L T E R —**

“L-Lenny!”

“Lenny, where are you at, boy!”

Arthur looks to you, shaking his head as he approaches.

“D-Did you find him?”

“I just found this,” you say, holding up a pot of flowers, “They’re p-pretty, but they’re not Lenny.”

“Dammit,” Arthur takes the flowers from you, and he gives them a small sniff, “They smell nice, though.”

You frown, looking around and feeling the room spin with your vision, “W-Where did he go?”

“I don’t know. He keeps slippin’ away! Gonna have to tie a lasso to that kid.”

“You have a lasso?” you ask, eyes widening.

Arthur scowls, “Yeah, why.”

“I think I h-have an idea."

 

**— W R E H E S I E H ? —**

Behind the bar, you and Arthur giggle from where you dangle your intended target from one of the trees.

It’s one of the men from the bar fight earlier, the one that held Javier in a chokehold and tried to hit Arthur with the chair, his nose still a bloody mess. He tries to yell behind his shirt you shoved into his mouth.

He’s got nothing but his hat covering himself, and as he spins, degraded at your own mercy, you both lean onto each other, laughing maniacally into the night.

 

**— E L N Y N ? W E H R E E A R O Y U ? —**

“I thought I found him, in the back room upstairs,” Arthur looks pale as he about falls down the rest of the stairs, “But it wasn’t him. N-Neither of them were. Especially the woman.”

You snap your fingers at his failure before asking, “Where is he then?”

“I dunno! I looked all over for him, b-b-but I can’t find him!”

“Come on, let’s go lookin’,” you say, and you grab ahold of Arthur’s wrist, pulling him towards the main door, “We just have to ask ourselves, where would Lenny go?”

“I dunno. I can’t find him.”

“No. I mean, we are tryin’ to find where he went but that isn’t what I was sayin’ to ya. You cross-crissed my words. I meant... use our brains like his, but not like ours.”

“You mean to think like him?”

“Y-Yeah.”

You both emerge onto the main road, most of the town now dead with the hour, and you frown as you look around to find most of the shops and buildings closed.

“Well. Most of the town is out. Any Lenny ideas in there?”

As you tap against Arthur’s skull, he winces, “Ow. I don’t think I can even use my brain as my own.”

Before you can try to figure out where he’s gone, you see the sheriff and a few of his deputies approach, following the pointing finger of the man you had strung up behind the saloon.

“Shit,” Arthur grips onto your wrist this time, and he pulls, already going towards the back of the saloon.

“Stop right there!”

“You’ll never take us alive!” Arthur shouts.

You laugh, despite everything, and as you come down the alleyway, getting cut off by another lawman, you swallow as Arthur diverts your escape.

“We’re Americans!”

As you both hop the fence, running into the dark away from Valentine with the law chasing after you both, the world fades into a warped and blissful state of black.

 

**\---**

Pain.

It’s all you feel as your eyes drearily open, only to shut when the world is too bright. You head hurts, your body hurts— everything hurts.

You can’t tell if the pounding in your skull is from your heartbeat, or your headache as you make the mistake of trying to sit up.

You groan, miserably lying back down slowly as the world still spins, and you lay back down, feeling what is almost like a small log underneath your head and one lying on your waist.

“Ah, Jesus...”

You scowl, bringing a hand over your eyes to try and dim things enough for you to look and see what’s going on, right as you feel someone shuffle against you.

And, as your eyes focus, you realize that you and Arthur are lying right beside each other, face to face, his arm both under your head and on your hip.

Swallowing, you see the moment he realizes the same thing, the way that he is pressed up against you, and there is a brief moment in which you both absorb the situation.

And then, you’re reacting to it.

You both pull back as though you were burned, only to regret your haste as it bites you in the ass. You both groan as you sit up, and you put your face in your hands.

“What in the hell did we do yesterday?” you ask in agony.

“Well, we drank. As instructed,” you peek at Arthur, who leans onto his knees, looking as though he’s trying not to vomit, “And I’m regretin’ that compliance right now.”

“Don’t use big words,” you mutter, feeling your own stomach roll about, “Just... Are the horses here?”

As you hear an answering whinny from D’or, you sigh in some relief.

“Thank god... At least one thing we ain’t gotta worry about...”

“God... Did we ever find Lenny?”

“Don’t think we did, considerin’ he ain’t here.”

You look around, finding that you and Arthur managed to get a bit out of town, only to collapse under a tree to remain unconscious until you pathetically woke.

As you stand, you feel the ache in your body for having slept on the ground, and you only hate yourself more for it.

“Oh god, why did I drink?”

“Here.”

You look up just enough to see Arthur offering a tonic to you, and you make a sad sound as you take it from him.

“Should make you feel a bit more like yourself.”

You hum, taking a light sip of the tonic and making a face at the taste. Despite your queasiness, you manage to get it down, and you feel a little better for it.

“Thanks,” you mutter, handing the bottle back towards the outlaw who takes it back and corks the rest, “Now what do we do?”

“I reckon we should head back to camp. With as much fuss as Bill created in the bar yesterday and with us doin’ no better, we should probably see what’s goin’ on before we head back into town,” as Arthur nears his Walker, making a pained noise as he moves up onto the saddle, “’Sides, feel like I need a moment to lay down and feel sorry for myself.”

You mutter your agreement, heading over to D’or and patting her and she makes a noise of concern.

Getting in the saddle is tough, both with your sore leg and hungover state, but you get there, for as much grief as it causes you.

“To Horseshoe,” you declare, and you both head off.

Neither of you goes beyond that of a light trot, as the world still spins somewhat violently if you move too quick or just right. And so you both take it easy, opting for a leisurely route instead of a quick one. You move side by side, both looking and feeling as miserable as the other.

Your mind, for as much as it can function and remember, tries to piece back together the day and night from before. It comes back in segments separated by periods of black, creating nothing more than a shattered and undefinable timeline you have no idea how to put together or explain.

But you do remember certain parts. The dumb parts. The crazy parts.

The important parts.

_“You know, Wolf, why ain’t you ever married?”_

_You giggle, looking at Arthur as you both lie out underneath the tree you’d fallen under from laughter, now looking up to the sky and enjoying the view above._

_“Well, I ain’t... I ain’t ever found the right person, I guess. Least, not one that wanted me.”_

_The outlaw frowns, his eyes narrowing on you, “How could they not want you?”_

_“Ah, s-stop it you,” you push against his shoulder, feeling a warm buzz that wasn’t ever caused by any bottle of whiskey you downed tonight, “You’re makin’ me blush.”_

_“I like it when you blush.”_

_You blink at him, turning your head so that you both could look at one another._

_Your eyes drop down to his lips as he does with yours, but you find yourself blurting._

_“Why did you kiss me?”_

_“What?”_

_You move your gaze back to Arthur’s eyes, and you grin at him, “Back at Havenwood. You kissed me. Remember?”_

_Arthur’s face draws up for a moment before recognition crosses his face, and he nods, looking back towards the stars, “Ah, yeah... I do now.”_

_“Yeah. Why did you do that?”_

_“Because there were guards comin'—”_

_“But you could’ve done anythin’ else,” you murmur, and Arthur makes a face before glancing back to you, “I didn’t hate it or anythin’ if you think that’s why I mentioned it... I... I kinda liked it.”_

_Arthur’s gaze is as pinning on you as it is heavy at your slurred words, “You... You did?”_

_“Yeah,” you breathe, and you both turn your bodies to face one another, “I did.”_

_Arthur makes a small noise, and he moves closer to you, till you're only some inches apart._

_You can feel the heat of his breath on your face with every exhale. And you're so close, you swear you can feel the growing thrum of his heart against his ribs as your bodies begin to intertwine inch by precious inch._

_That warmth, that fluttering._

_The man’s eyes heat in a way you’re not used to, and you have to break contact with them, lest you feel like you were burning from the inside out._

_The moment is fragile, as though it were formed from glass, tempering as you make the first move._

_Taking your hand, you slowly move it up to Arthur’s lip, your attention and touch focused on where it was split during his earlier brawl._

_The outlaw is stock still, holding his breath as your fingertips near, curious as they are tangible._

_You make a slightly wounded noise, running the tip of your thumb as gently over the skin as you can manage with how the limb feels like uncoordinated lead. The flesh is soft, where the scabbing is rough, and you hate the reason for its contrast._

_Pulling away after a moment’s more of tracing the small cut, you still find Arthur looking at you just as intensely as he was before._

_Those green eyes, mixed with almost shards of blue and hazel that sparkle in the moonlight, enrapturing you further._

_“S-Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks burning as you pull your hand back, “It must hurt still.”_

_“It doesn’t,” Arthur assures you with a breathless whisper, and he only pulls you closer, “I enjoyed that...”_

_“Did you?”_

_“Yeah,” Arthur rumbles, and you feel him slip one of his arms under your head while he places one on your waist, “I enjoyed all of it.”_

_Blushing again, you smile lopsidedly, and a small giggle works its way out of you. But it’s all weak, that chortling of yours cutting off with a yawn as you feel your eyes slipping closed._

_“You’re just too good for me, Wolf,” Arthur murmurs, just as tired and drunk, and you feel that split on his lip again as he presses a chaste kiss to your forehead before pulling back, “I could n-never be the man you deserve.”_

_Humming sleepily, the words lost to you just like consciousness, you burrow your face into his broad chest, and the rest faded to black._

Your eyes are wide as you both head back to camp, with the fluttering memory leaving your cheeks burning and your mind scandalized as you chance a glance back to Arthur.

He doesn’t seem to have remembered that particular moment from last night. Whether he can remember it, or can’t is up for debate, but you’re certain it hasn’t crossed his mind as it has yours.

And when he catches you looking at him, you avert your gaze in a poor attempt to not be caught.

“Hey, you okay?” Arthur asks, the concern in his voice only making this a bit worse for you, “You’ve been actin’ strange since that fight yesterday.”

“Don’t think I know what you mean by that...”

Arthur huffs, a bit annoyed at your dismissal, “Well, first off, you told me you weren’t gonna drink. But then, when I come back from gettin' cleaned up and dressed, you’re about halfway through a whiskey bottle and feelin’ just fine. Lord knows what else happened, but now you’re actin’ all strange, and it kinda worries me, Wolf.”

You shrug, your heart clenching a bit, “Just wanted to let loose finally. As much as I’m sufferin’ for it now...”

“Just— did I do somethin’? I... I can do things when I’m drunk. Things I don’t mean to do or say otherwise.”

His words feel like knives with how they sink in, offering nothing more than a sharp, gutting feeling as you process them. Your stomach sinks, and you look down to where you hold D’or’s reins, and you swallow thickly.

“No, Arthur,” you murmur, your voice sounding far more disappointed than you’d like, “Leg is botherin’ me, is all.”

Arthur looks like he wants to press further, but you both come upon camp, and his opportunity is cut off when Javier notices you both.

“Lobo, Oso!” he greets, smiling at you both, “Glad to see you made it back in one piece! Lenny just got back a bit ago, we were worried since you got split.”

You force a smile back as you pass him, “Hey, Javier, we're just fine.”

Arthur offers his own greeting, but it’s short and clipped. Still, he comes up behind you on his Walker as you stop at the hitching posts right in front of the camp, and you both dismount and hitch your horses beside one another.

But as soon as his Walker is hitched, Arthur goes to leave, stewing a bit in a way you already don’t like.

So you try to put an end to it before it can even start.

“Arthur,” you grab ahold of his shoulder, stopping him as well as turning him to face you, his face drawn up into a slight scowl as he regards you hesitantly, “I just... Thank you, for yesterday. As wild and crazy as it was.”

Arthur nods, dropping some of his personal overcast before straightening a little, “I’m gonna go talk to Dutch. See what’s goin’ on with Sean. Just... rest that leg of yours. I can tell it needs it after last night after god knows what we did.”

“There’s a lot of things I need,” you joke, and you walk past him with a somber smirk, heading towards your tent.

You feel his eyes on you as you leave, but you force yourself to keep on walking.

Heading towards your tent, you heave a breath, finding it near the edge of camp. It’s closer to the back, by the tree behind Arthur’s wagon, if the location weren’t damning now.

But this time, you have a bit of a better tent, with it not being as small or barren as the lean-to. You know that the cot you were given alongside a few of the other items like your wardrobe chest were things of either Davey’s or Jenny’s, repurposed for you after their passing. It makes your tent a bit melancholy usually, but with the lingering ache in both your skull and your body overall, you’re a bit grateful as you head inside.

Practically collapsing onto your cot, you look towards the canvas flapping lightly above you, wondering if there was another budding ache within you that you didn’t know quite how to solve.

And as you hear Arthur, your head lifting just enough to spy him heading into Dutch’s tent, you frown.

Oh, what a predicament this was indeed.

 

**— A F E W D A Y S L A T E R —**

“—and I just want to say,” Sean hiccups, gesturing to the camp with his nearly spent bottle of beer, “that I missed the lot of ya with every day that I was gone! Thought I was a goner, I was! But even grumpy, old Arthur Morgan came to get me!”

“Startin’ to regret that now,” Arthur mutters from beside you, and you chuckle.

“Sean MacGuire is back! Dead Eye MacGuire, the best shot of the Van Der Linde troop, and a handsome Irishman to boot!”

Arthur waves a hand, and you both begin to leave with a few others as Sean begins his drunken rambling.

You smile as you notice Karen staying, looking far too grateful for Sean’s return for what she wanted to let on in the past few days. With how she cried over him back in Colter, after he went missing since the robbery in Blackwater, you know that her pride could never mask how she cared for Sean.

“They are two lovebirds, aren’t they?” Arthur asks with mirth warming his voice, especially as Sean jumps down from his makeshift podium of boxes and down to where he wraps Karen up in his arms, “He couldn’t shut up about her the entire way back to camp.”

“They’re somethin’, that’s for sure,” you say, watching as Karen laughs with tears in her eyes as Sean spins her around giddily, “I’d reckon happy is a good way to put it.”

You and Arthur walk past one of the fires at the back of camp, with Uncle telling his tales of surviving in Australia to Reverend, Javier, and Charles. They all know it holds as much truth as John can hold his whiskey as he stumbles by, but they still let the man entertain them for the hell of it.

As you go to Arthur’s tent, you hear the familiar track of orchestra playing from Dutch’s tent, his record as lively as he with Molly as they spin about and dance. It surprises you— both to see Dutch a bit drunk in celebration and with Molly in his arms, dancing and laughing, looking happy for the first time since you’ve run with the gang.

“Those two are the worst lovebirds,” Arthur tells you as he sits down on his cot, and you join him as he points to where Molly and Dutch spin around one another as sloppily as they are jovial, “They’re the kind that fights and act like they hate one another most of the time. But deep down, you’d know they care ‘bout one another in some way. But... I’d say Molly more so than Dutch. For now.”

Tilting your head to Arthur, you ask, “What do you mean?”

Arthur scratches at his thick beard as he elaborates, “You know, she’s from a wealthy girl from Dublin. She came over here to America lookin’ for somethin’, what exactly I don’t know, but she stayed. For Dutch.”

“Sounds like a lot to give up. Especially for this,” you say, and as you realize the unintentional edge to your words, you look to Arthur, “Not that this is bad, just—”

“It ain’t no life with a silver spoon like she’s used to. I know what you mean, Wolf,” Arthur chuckles as you let your hackles fall back into place, “She isn’t happy usually. Just sticks to Dutch’s side like a trinket, and he sure treats her like one at times. It just worries me. Especially with how Dutch is.”

You look at Arthur quizzically, and he sighs.

“He and Grimshaw used to be together,” he tells you, and you gape at that, “But it was many years ago. When I was young. At first, it was just me, Hosea, and Dutch, but Susan has been runnin’ with us for a while yet. Used to sit on his lap when we played poker, back then. And then that fell apart, but we were lucky enough to where Grimshaw stuck with us. Even when Anabelle came along.”

“What happened with her.”

Arthur grows a bit crestfallen then, his voice quiet, “Ah, what happens to the unluckiest of us in this life... You know Colm? The leader of the O’Driscolls?”

“Yeah. The one you all did a hit on with that train robbery back in Colter.”

“There’s a proper blood feud between him and Dutch. A long and very heated one... You see, Colm killed Anabelle, years ago. And in retaliation, Dutch killed his brother.”

You breathe, not missing the weight of those words.

Your eyes drift back over to Dutch as he swings Molly around, wondering how many girls have been in her place.

“He’s never gotten over Anabelle. Never. Not a single day has passed since she did that he don’t miss her with all of his heart. Nothin’ he can do can bring her back. And Molly, he may care for her, but...”

“She ain’t her.”

Arthur nods, pulling his hat off of his head and holding it between his legs, “That she ain’t, and she knows it.”

You regard the two again, viewing them in a different light.

It explains a lot. Molly’s frustration, Dutch’s stubbornness. They are two lovebirds, but not of the same kind. They know no other song but each other’s, despite the difference, despite it almost being another language they serenade in.

“It makes some sense,” you start, looking over to Arthur and where he sits to your left on his cot, “Sometimes the love you feel ain’t right, but... it’s all you got. And I guess some people would rather feel any kind of love than none at all.”

Arthur hums, nodding in agreement.

As you take him in, your eyes habitually move to the nightstand behind him over his shoulder, and more importantly, the photo of a woman framed there.

Squinting, you lean over some, nodding to it once Arthur notices how your attention is caught.

“Who is she?”

Arthur’s head turns, attempting to follow your gaze until it lands on the framed photo across from him on his table.

“Oh, that? That’s my momma.”

“Oh,” you notice the one frame Arthur was discussing, another photo of a woman, older than the one you’d initially seen pictured, and you correct him, “I was actually talking about the other one...”

Arthur quiets, and you can tell the moment he knows which photo you are referring to. His shoulders fall, and he looks away from the photo, looking as worn as you’ve ever seen him.

“Arthur?”

“Mary,” is what he says, a bit colder than you expected, “Her name is Mary.”

You blink, and you look away from her warm smile and fair face, “Oh... I... Sorry I asked.”

“No. Don’t apologize,” Arthur settles his hand on your wrist, and you blink at him in surprise, “You didn’t know.”

You swallow, looking away once Arthur’s hand slips off of your wrist, the skin almost tingling with its absence.

“She’s... she’s pretty,” you offer awkwardly, trying to make light of the situation.

Arthur only hums at your words, and you feel worse for the attempt. Especially as he looks to the ground, his eyes narrowed and lips pressed together thinly.

“Do... Do you want—” you stop for a moment, and from the corner of your eye, you see Arthur glance at you, “Did you want to go for a ride?”

At your sudden request, Arthur parts his lips as he looks at you.

“Right now?”

“Why not?” you stand then, gesturing with an arm to where half the camp isn’t even sober, and the other half is asleep, “Ain’t nothin’ else for us to do. And it can be just down to the river. Nothin’ crazy or anythin’.”

Arthur looks at you for a moment, considering the offer until his lips crack with a smile, and he shakes his head as he puts his hat back on.

“Ah, what the hell.”

You smirk, and you both head towards your horses.

“You know, you really should name the colt or figure out what you’re doin’ with him,” you tell Arthur as you go to saddle up on D’or, “Doesn’t seem fitting for you to have a nameless horse.”

“It'll come to me. Either the name or what I wanna do,” he says as he settles on his saddle, holding onto the Walker’s reins, “Until then, we have a bit of a trip to focus on.”

Snorting, you take the lead, “Yeah yeah, come on.”

You trot the horses down one of the paths you’ve worn through the trunks of the trees, and you head down one of the steep trails leading to the Dakota river. You can already hear the running water in the distance, and a small smile stretches your lips as you see it coming into view. Arthur rides up beside you, and you stop the horses once you’ve reached the bank of the river.

D’or throws her head lightly as you dismount, taking her reins in her hands to lead her to the edge of the water. And Arthur does the same, allowing your horses to drink as you look towards the stars, sighing deeply.

“What’s got you so wrapped up in that head of yours?” Arthur asks softly, stopping by your side.

You regard him for a moment before looking back overhead to where the moon hangs heavy in the sky, large and yellow, casting the night in a dark shade of blue.

“Ah, it’s a lotta things.”

“I’ve noticed,” Arthur takes his boot, kicking at the dirt below as he pulls a cigarette and match from his satchel, “Ain’t nothin’ bad though, is it?”

You refrain from looking to him, instead dropping your gaze to the water and how it sparkles in the moonlight, and a sad smile stretches your lips, “No. Nothin’ bad. Just... Some things are changin’.”

As Arthur lights the match, he speaks past the cigarette held within his lips, “Things always are.”

“Well, just things I wasn’t expectin’ to,” you add with some defense, “My whole life I never imagined I’d be on the run with a notorious gang like the Van Der Linde’s, yet here I am. It’s... It’s an odd kinda thing.”

Glancing over, you watch as Arthur cups one hand around the one that pinches the end of the lit match between his fingertips. It lights up his face, and eventually the end of his cigarette, announcing itself with the familiar smell of smoke and burning tobacco as Arthur immediately takes a pull from it. Flicking the match out, he tosses it into the water, exhaling and then glancing to you, his head at an angle to eye you from under his hat.

“What was your childhood like?”

The inquiry is a bit unexpected, as Arthur’s apparent interest isn’t something you’d imagine ever existing, but you shrug nevertheless. As the nightly breeze carries past you, sweeping pieces of your air about your face, you cross your arms as you smile softly.

“Pretty sheltered, I guess... Momma died when I was young. Real young... Lookin’ back, it was like she was there, and then not from what I can remember. Dad never even told me what happened, it hurt him so much. Her leavin’ tore my dad to shreds, but he didn’t give up on me, even in his grief,” you shake your head lightly, kicking at the gravel banks below with your boot, “After momma passed, dad just became protective. Took him forever to convince him to take me huntin’. He was about terrified when I showed interest in guns.”

Snickering, Arthur’s smirk isn’t lost on you as he says, “Bet that took some convincin’.”

“Oh, it took such a long time for him to teach me to shoot. He didn’t wait till I was... Lord, I think I was about eighteen when he first taught me to shoot. Seems like lifetimes ago, not a handful of years...”

“Usually does. I don’t even remember my childhood, though, not like I had much of one. Life had me growin’ up quick, ain’t had time to really be a proper kid,” Arthur rubs at his chin, “But, for what it is, your dad did a damn good job.”

A crestfallen smile pats your lips, “Did he?”

“I never had to teach you much,” Arthur admits to you, “I was... I guess your dad and I have that in common, I suppose.”

“And what’s that?”

“We worried.”

Arthur looks at you, his eyes softly creasing as they narrow. His lips draw up, and he flicks the spent end of his cigarette off to be carried as ash in the breeze. You watch as the pieces flurry about him like snow as he lowers his head, smiling and chuckling to himself.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothin’ just...” Arthur shakes his head, glancing back up to you, “Just never thought you’d be like this. When we first met.”

Your mind wanders to that day— to that moment that feels much like you said, lifetimes ago.

When Arthur came upon you at the foot of your parents’ graves, with your tears falling much like the rain around you as he approached.

A poor girl, miserable and heartbroken, left with nothing more than herself in a world that cared nothing for her.

And now look at you. At where you’ve come in such little time.

“Well, I never imagined you’d be like this,” you huff, looking back out towards the river, trying to focus on anything but the memories of a time you’d rather forget, “You can’t hold your beer for nothin’, mister.”

Humored, Arthur gapes in mock offense, laughing as he points a finger at you, “Says the woman who can barely hold her whiskey!”

“Oh, I can hold it, alright,” you snort, “I just don’t know when to put down the bottle.”

“Dear lord, how many did you have the other night?”

“More than I should’ve,” you admit, shaking your head.

Arthur hums, his mirth dying a bit when he asks, “You know, you never gave me a straight answer. ‘Bout why you drank with us in the end.”

As he takes another pull, you flounder a bit mentally, the embarrassment you felt in that moment just as potent as it was then as it is now. Flushing, you grab one of your locks of hair, twiddling the end of it between your fingers as smoke billows past Arthur’s lips.

“I guess I needed to be drunk. For once,” you say somewhat pathetically, “Why does it matter? Can I not let loose like everyone else?”

“Now I ain’t sayin’ that. Just... didn’t seem like you. You don’t drink much, per your own description.”

“Yeah, well,” you mutter, “Don’t mean I don’t drink at all, though.”

Arthur hums, shrugging, “Suppose not.”

“Well, I think that, no matter what led us to drownin’ our sorrows, we shall refrain from doin’ so for a while yet.”

Chuckling, Arthur nods, “With that, I am in agreement.”

You snort, thinking back to what little of that night you can remember. How you were such giddy fools, chased by the law and feeling as good as can be. Thinking on it now, you honestly aren’t bothered by that. By what happened in Valentine.

But waking next to Arthur... now that was something that freaked you out more than anything.

“Do you remember much from that night?” Arthur asks, exhaling smoke through a small pout he makes.

“Not everythin’, but I remember enough,” you murmur, and you rub your hands up the sides of your arms at the particular chill sweeps over you.

“I can imagine. We didn’t exactly have a quiet night.”

Curiosity pulls at you, and despite your unease, you find yourself asking, “What about you? . . . What do you remember?”

Humming, Arthur tosses the rest of his spent cigarette onto the riverbank, “Not much, like you. Just various bits and pieces...” Arthur doesn’t look at you as he hooks his thumbs into his belt, his eyes purposefully focused on the river as it gurgles and sloshes over itself from its own torrent, “Last I can remember is us gettin' to that tree...”

So he doesn’t remember?

About the conversation you shared underneath the branches, just as intertwining with your limbs under the canopy it offered?

You try to mask the disappointment that surges forth at that, at the small hope that managed to manifest itself despite the initial shock over its existence, now shriveling in light of Arthur’s admission.

“Last I remember is runnin’ from the law,” you lie, your voice held pointedly even.

Arthur’s shoulders tense lightly, and he nods, taking in your words.

The air surrounding you both grows a bit heavy, and not in a way you like as you let your eyes drift away, passing over the opposite bank of the river and to where it flows further southward, cutting through the land and separating it in half.

The tension just does the same, keeping you both in a peculiar parallel. Close, but apart. Together, but not.

It has you licking your lips, and you let out a small, pensive breath as you begin to wonder how you got so caught up in all of this.

The shrill sound of Arthur’s whistle has you jumping, and your head swivels immediately in his direction. His back is to you, already facing towards his colt as it trots up obediently to the outlaw, ducking his head as Arthur holds out a hand.

Despite knowing Arthur and having the man handle his reins for only a few weeks now, you can see how his Walker trusts him as it presses its face into his offered palm.

It makes you smile weakly, both at how Arthur has a way with the animal, but also in the way it reminds you of him and Boadicea.

The Walker swishes his tail, rumbling lightly as Arthur strokes down the bridge of his face before letting his hand fall away, and he glances over his shoulder to you.

“Think we should head back now,” he murmurs, taking his colt’s reigns and going to saddle up, “It’s gettin' late, and I’m afraid I’m havin’ to go to Strawberry tomorrow to rescue Micah.”

The noise you make after he says that is one of disgust as D’or trots to you, “You sure you have to?”

At your reaction, Arthur chuckles, “’Fraid so. But I’d love to let him swing. Debatin’ if I should,” you regard Arthur here and there as you mount D’or, and he leans forward a bit, the Walker’s reins in his hands as he rests, “I got a nasty feelin’ about him.”

“From what little I’ve seen, he’s a putrid man,” you pat D’or on the neck before you turn her back towards the direction of camp, “I have no idea what Dutch sees in him.”

As Arthur moves his Walker, he huffs in agreement, “Not sure either. He’s only been here, what— not even five months now? But with the way Dutch treats him, talks about him, you’d think he came along when John or I did.”

“When John did?”

Arthur offers up a depreciating laugh as you both ride back slowly towards camp, “Oh yes. Little Johnny Marston... He’s been ridin’ with us for a long while too, though it don’t seem to matter much to him... Dutch and Hosea picked him up when he was about my age when they found me, so fourteen or so? Scraggly as he is now, just shorter, and a whole lot dumber. He was a rabid little shit, I can tell you that.”

Snorting, you picture John as a kid, and can definitely see what Arthur describes to you so clearly, as though you’d gotten to see such a thing.

“Anyone else raised up like you two?”

“Nah, just us,” Arthur murmurs, “Everyone else kinda came along as you did. They needed us, needed the escape, needed somethin’ or another. All of us did, though.”

“What were you needin’?”

“I guess I needed a second chance... I was just a kid, but... Like I said, life had me growin’ up fast... My dad, he was an awful man. My momma was kind, but she passed early on, like yours. But him? He was vile, Wolf. He ended up gettin’ arrested for larceny. And they hanged him for it. Best damn day of my life... I was about twelve or thirteen when he died.”

The crickets chirping around you fill the silence between you two until you’re able to softly murmur an apology, “Arthur, I’m so sorry.”

“Nah, don’t be. As I said, him dying, it weren’t soon enough,” he mutters darkly, a bitterness seeping into his words that you didn’t expect him to hold, “But I lived on the streets afterward for a few years. Learned to steal, ‘cause I had to. Slept where I could, did what I had to so I could survive. And then one day, when I’m about fifteen, I see these two men and think they’d be such an easy score.”

Realization dawns on you, and you chuckle, “Guess that wasn’t the case?”

“Hosea was wise, even then. He knew I was tailin’ them, and he’s the one who caught me tryin’ to steal out of their saddlebags. Straight set me up, he did. Hid in an alleyway after I thought he went into the store with Dutch, caught me red-handed with my wrists buried in his stuff. And instead of turnin’ me in or tryna get even, he offered to take me under their wing, and the rest is history.”

Whistling lowly, you try to picture Arthur at that age, stranded on the streets and out for himself. It has an odd feeling curling near your gut.

“Told you,” Arthur says, gauging your reaction to what he’s said, “I never had much of a childhood. But I did get what a lot of people didn’t, and that was a savin’ grace. Dutch, Hosea— I’m sure they’re the only reason I’m alive now.”

Regarding Arthur, you mutter, “I know the feelin’.”

The outlaw doesn’t hear you as you ride back up on camp, passing Charles from where he’s taken up watch for the night. He greets you both warmly, turning his attention back to the trails leading out of the small thicket of woods with his repeater held in his hands as you both pass.

When you come upon camp, getting ready to hitch your horses at the first post, you notice that Dutch has turned his phonograph off, and he and Molly have retired for the night. Even Hosea and Lenny are already passed out in their bedrolls, as you both hitch your horses.

A few souls are awake by the fire, but you can tell the party for Sean’s return is dying out. You pass Uncle, Reverend, and Bill who merrily drink away. But, when Reverend sees Arthur, he ducks his head, looking away in shame and getting up to leave from the fire.

“He still pressed about the other day?” you ask, remembering how Arthur had to go save the man from himself at Latneck Station.

“Guess so... A little shame will do him so well, for that one. We all pity him, we do, but he’s gotta get himself together soon. Pearson caught him tryna still from the tiding box the other day, too.”

“Jesus,” you curse, shaking your head as you both slow next to Arthur’s tent, “Why hasn’t Dutch kicked him out yet?”

“Reverend saved him, a few years back. Don’t know how exactly, but Dutch offered him a place in the gang as repayment. As much as that’s workin’ out now...”

Arthur walks over to his cot, setting his hat onto his side table and by the picture of his mother he’d told you about earlier. Your eyes study her for a moment, taking her photo in until you find your gaze drifting back to the portrait that first caught your eye. You stare, your brows furrowing as Arthur sets his satchel and his holster onto the table beside his hat, his back facing you.

But, as Arthur turns back, you redirect your gaze, making sure he is none the wiser to your nosiness.

“Think it’s time I finally get some shut-eye,” Arthur tells you, stretching lightly.

“Right... I’m already sorry for what you have to do come mornin’,” you sympathize with the outlaw as his lips tick at the reminder, “At least I can offer my wishes of you sleepin’ well.”

“And I offer mine to you, Wolf,” Arthur says fondly as you step away, “Night.”

“Goodnight, Arthur.”

You walk away towards your tent, wondering just what chaos will come with tomorrow.

 

**\---**

You wake again with the sunrise, stretching out of your cot and looking towards where the sun emerges and crowns over the rolling hills of the Heartlands. The pale, yellow morning light illuminates camp as you head out of your tent, rubbing at your thigh as you try to work the stiffness out of the muscle.

Deciding a stroll around camp will help, you first walk by Arthur’s tents in the hopes of catching the man before he leaves.

As you round the back of his wagon, you immediately notice that his cot is empty, and his hat alongside his satchel and other belongings no longer line his table. And with a sad sigh, you aren’t surprised as you look to where D’or is hitched, and see that the outlaw’s Walker is nowhere in sight.

Still, it does not perturb you from your walk, and you rub at your thigh as you walk about, looking to the canopy of trees and taking in the warm-ups the birds go through now that they have woken with the sun.

As you pass near Pearson’s wagon, you hear sniffling, and your eyes search in the direction of the noise until you find what you’re looking for, tied to the trunk of a tree.

It’s Kieran, that O’Driscoll Arthur picked up back in Colter. He’s bound against one of the large oaks at the edge of camp, the lengths of rope that held him against the aged bark digging into his raw wrists as he struggles, his cheeks red and tear-stained.

In front of him is a cup and a bucket of water, obviously placed just out of reach, and you can see where he is struggling to try a get just even a drop, as futile as it all is.

You had no idea Kieran was here, having not wandered this way much since you settled in Horseshoe some weeks ago, with your leg being as it was.

And as you lightly limp in his direction, you curse at yourself for being so ignorant to his suffering.

As you approach, Kieran immediately shuts in on himself. His wide eyes take to you, and instantly, he is whimpering pleas to spare him, begging for your forgiveness for a wrong not done.

Your heart pangs at his mumblings, at the way his skin is bruised along the edge of his jaw, and around his puffy, right eye.

“Kieran?” you ask softly, not missing the way he trembles as you talk to him, “That’s your name isn’t it?”

“Y-Yes!” he hisses, “I promise, it is! I ain’t lyin’ to you!”

Scowling, you eye him pitifully, “I never said you were...”

“I didn’t— I’m sorry, miss!” he pulls at his binds a little, squirming like a rabbit caught in a trap with your presence, and you feel your stomach roll in disgust at the way you can tell he’s been given plenty of reason to act in such a manner, “Please, just ignore me!”

A moment passes in which you do nothing, and Kieran eyes you in terror as it passes. He doesn’t know what you’re going to say, what you’re going to do, and he flinches all the same as you take one step closer.

He keeps his eyes closed, shuddering out a few sobs as he waits for a strike that will never come.

Another moment passes after you stop in front of Kieran, and you are patient as he cries, expecting nothing but other slap, another form of torture.

But as he opens his eyes finally, you can tell that he does not expect the glass of water you offer to him.

They dart between you and the drink, and his tongue darts out over his cracked lips in a thirst you dare not attempt to describe as he tries to understand what you’re doing.

“I’m not gonna do anythin’ but give you water,” you promise, your voice light and faint, just like the way you press the rim of the glass to Kieran’s dry lips, “Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. We just gotta make this quick, okay?”

As the first bit of water touches his tongue, Kieran goes to drink like a madman. You have to tilt the cup quickly to match his greed, and you watch as he gulps the water down until the very last drop slides into his mouth. He’s panting lightly as you pull the cup away, setting it back down in the grass beside the bucket as it had been as Kieran stares at you oddly.

“Why did you do that?” he asks, as quiet as he is disbelieving.

“I’m not like the rest,” you say, “I don’t find pleasure in watchin’ anyone suffer.”

Kieran ducks his head, nodding, “I... Thank you.”

Hearing a familiar voice in your head mirror your words, you smile softly at the O’Driscoll, “Don’t thank me.”

Kieran looks like he wants to say something else, but before he can, someone begins to approach, and he quickly drops his head to his chest, that fear of his before coming back full force.

Frowning, you turn towards the sound of footfalls crunching down grass from behind you, right as Mrs. Grimshaw approaches.

“Have you seen Arthur, Ms. Broce?”

“Not since last night, and he wasn’t here when I woke at dawn. He’s gone to Strawberry to get Micah back.”

Grimshaw’s scowl is as sour as ever, and she sighs dramatically as she practically throws an envelope at you, “Well, you see that man more than I do. This is his. A letter, from that Mary Linton.”

The name is scornful as it leaves Mrs. Grimshaw’s tongue, almost as though the name itself was poison.

“Mary?” you ask, thinking of the photo back in Arthur’s tent, “She wrote to him?”

“Oh, those two were the most lovesick fools I ever met, when they were young. I’m more surprised it took Mary this long to try and write him again, as much trouble as she is,” Grimshaw huffs, “Wish I could just throw that damn envelope in the fire and save Arthur the trouble.”

Your grip on the letter tightens some, the envelope and the paper inside slightly folding in your grip as you mutter, “I’ll make sure it gets to him.”

“Good. Just ‘cause your leg is shot doesn’t mean I expect you to not do some work around here. Especially with John and Bill bein' as lazy as they are,” Grimshaw snaps, and she shakes her head, turning to walk away, “And you best tell Arthur that I said just to ignore whatever she has to say!”

You look down to the envelope pinched between your fingers, your eyes glaring to the curved letters on the outside of the envelope. It’s addressed with a name you don’t recognize, a Tacitus Kilgore, and you frown as you look back to the expanse of camp before your hand falls to your side, and you look back to Kieran.

“I’ll try and help you when I can,” you promise him.

His eyes are red from where he’s cried for the mercy that you assure him, and as he stares at you, looking as though you were the angel sent in response to his prayers, you have to look away and leave.

The letter burns your fingertips as you head to Arthur’s tent, your mind as cloudy as the sky as what seems like an oncoming storm begins to roll in. The wind picks up, pulling at the flaps of Dutch’s tent as you pass, causing the trees to creak as they sway.

You step into Arthur’s tent, looking towards the table and biting your lip in consideration, and thinking better of the placement. If you set the letter here, it is likely to blow away, or get soaked with that seems like the promise of rain as the sky rumbles distantly, some miles off.

Sighing with exasperation, you look around Arthur’s tent, and deciding the trunk at the foot of his bed will do.

You undo the latch to the trunk quickly and place the letter inside as though it were a hot coal. And just as abruptly, you shut the lid, all about slamming it as you work the metal latch into place.

Your hands rest against the worn leather, and when you swallow, it all feels too thick.

The photo catches your attention again, and you stare at Mary’s face, at the way she smiles at the camera, at the way it makes you feel...

How do you feel?

You take a step back, breathing deeply as you mentally come to a halt.

Why does it matter that Mary wrote to Arthur? Why does it matter that Arthur still has her picture at his bedside?

It shouldn’t. At least, not in the way it seems to... At the way it seems to get under your skin, irritating you and driving you mad with worry all the same.

What’s gotten into you? Why are you...

Why are you feeling _jealous,_ of all things?

You force yourself to take a step back, your hands clenched into fists.

“Ms. Broce?”

You jump, and you whirl around to see Hosea quirking a brow at you.

“H-Hosea,” you stutter, and you brush at your pants inconspicuously.

“You weren’t lookin’ through Arthur’s things, I hope,” he tilts his head at you as you immediately flush.

“No! No, I was just placing a letter to Arthur in there, one that Grimshaw saddled me with Felt like the best place, with the storm.”

Hosea nods, and he impassively studies the trunk, “She say who it’s from?”

“Mary.”

Hosea nods, putting his hands behind his back. His eyes narrow a little as his ticks his shin upward, lips pursed in thought. His gray hair ruffles some with the wind, and it is as shifting as you are on your feet as you wait for Hosea to speak.

Finally, Hosea hums, disregarding Arthur’s trunk and the letter inside as he moves his attention back to you.

“Care to take a stroll to entertain an old man?”

Despite your nerves, you snort dully, bobbing your head, “Sure.”

Hosea’s lips crack with a grin as you approach, and together, you walk towards the back of camp.

“How have things been for you?” Hosea asks, “I know it’s been a lot, these past few weeks.”

“I’m doin’ alright. Best as I can be, I suppose... Leg is doin’ better, though,” you add, and then you peek at the old man, “What about you? You seem to be feelin’ better, at least.”

At your words, Hosea waves a hand, his smile weak as it is hollow, “Ah, the cough comes and goes I’m afraid. Just a sign of my years. Bein’ up in that cold just brought it on a lot worse than it usually tends to be. But I’ll survive, for now...”

You both reach the edge of camp, where the land ground cuts off sharply, and it offers you the view you’ve come to love since you’ve arrived here. And you can tell Hosea appreciates it too, taking a deep breath and closing his eyes, letting the wind wash over him.

You take the moment to enjoy the splendors of it too, watching the way the trees dance in the wind.

“Beautiful country, isn’t it?” Hosea asks, finally opening his eyes.

“I’ll admit, I never thought the east was this nice. Granted, I was only here for a short time, as a kid.”

“This isn’t our first rodeo this way either, but it’s also been a while since it,” Hosea tells you, putting his hands on his hips, “Never thought I’d be back again so soon, or like this.”

You nod, your eyes scanning over the landscape as you ask, “What are we going to do now? Arthur mentioned to me you planned on goin’ west if things worked out, but... guess that is nothin’ more than a passing dream now.”

“With the Pinkertons blocking off the roads as they were, we had no choice to go east from West Elizabeth. I doubt we can go back for a while yet, despite Micah and Dutch’s dream of doin’ so. They don’t wanna think about it, they only care about the money we left in Blackwater.”

“I’m sure there was a lot there on the ferry.”

The sound Hosea makes is one of frustration and fury, and your attention snaps to him as he hisses, “Oh, but it’s more than that, Ms. Broce. _All_ of our money was left in that blasted town. Dutch insisted we stash it in Blackwater, that way we could grab it whenever we raided the ferry. And you know how that worked out. When we ran, we left every damn dollar behind.”

Cursing, you shake your head.

“I’m not sure how we can make it back on our feet at this point, Ms. Broce,” the old man’s admission is a bit fearful, and you don’t miss the way his eyes glass over as he continues, “They’ve never come after us like this before. And Dutch, he just wants to pretend as though nothin’ is happenin’. That the government isn’t sending an entire detective agency after us on his name. He thinks we can just rob and steal as we do, and we’ll be able to get back on track, but...” his voice grows warier still, “I feel it's a fool’s dream, and Dutch, well, he refuses to wake up.”

As the first few droplets of rain begin to fall, Hosea turns to you, his face stern and drawn up. You eye him, the clouds crackling overhead.

“If the time comes, don’t wait on any of us to do the same,” he warns, the thunder echoing alongside his words, “This is a fate of our design. You shouldn’t have to pay the price with us.”

Shaken, you murmur, “But what about the others? . . . What about—”

“Arthur?” Hosea finishes for you as you fall silent, and he sets a hand onto your shoulder, “I know you care for him, as much as he cares for you... But know I mean this with the utmost sincerity. If the time comes, you leave us behind. All of us. And don’t look back.”

“Hosea, I couldn’t—”

“You didn’t have a choice like the others. What Strauss does, even people like us despise it. I know you could’ve walked away, and things are different now, but you came here with no choice all the same. And this, if it ends the way that it seems to be leadin’ to, it won’t be pretty. And the last person I wanna see get caught up in all of that mess is someone who wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place...” he allows his hand to fall away, and his voice is timid as it begins to rain, “It’s all I will ever ask of you, Ms. Broce.”

You hang your head, nodding, “Okay...”

Hosea looks back out towards the expanse of land before you both and breathes out.

“Dutch says our destinies are ones crafted by our own will, and you know what?” Hosea begins to walk away, “Our destiny has been crafted by us from the start. And now, we have to finish it.”

The man departs from you then, leaving you at the overhang of camp, the rain soaking into your clothes like the words the man left you with.

 

**\---**

There is commotion at the front of camp, knocking you out of the book Mary-Beth lent to you as you hear shouting over the dull roar of the rain.

You mark your place, standing from your cot and setting the book down onto your small night table, your freehand moving to your thigh as you walk to the edge of your tent.

Overhead, the sky cracks and booms, a flash of lightning causes the horses to neigh a bit from fright as you look past the droplets of rain falling from the edge of your canvas covering.

From your spot, you see Arthur, drenched and livid, exchanging heated words with Dutch. He points a finger at the man, the locks of his hair plastered to his face as rivulets of rainwater run down his skin and off worn his leather jacket as he seethes. He moves his body, muscles bunched with tension as he angrily walks away, leaving Dutch to shake his head, and to look towards the sodden, muddy ground below in Arthur’s wake.

Arthur lets some of his fury fall away as he nears his tent, especially when his eyes land to you. You see the way it melts, like snow in the midst of the sun, and a different kind of warmth replaces the heat of his fury.

And like the promise of spring, it calls to you.

And so you answer.

You step out into the torrential downpour, immediately assaulted by fat, heavy droplets as the sky rolls and rumbles above. It soaks you in mere moments, and you’re shivering from the iciness of it as you reach Arthur’s tent, joining the outlaw under the flimsy protection of the waterlogged cloth above his head.

“You’re gonna catch somethin’, lettin’ yourself get soaked like that,” Arthur gently chides, shaking his head as you shiver.

“Hush,” you huff, watching as Arthur goes to his clothing trunk.

He gets the latch undone, ignoring how he soaks and muddies his knees as he leans down, opening the lid.

And suddenly, you recall what you had done earlier, your mouth open to inform the man right as he pauses awkwardly.

“It’s... I had to put it there. Because of the storm,” you say as Arthur’s hand goes into the trunk, emerging with that damned envelope in its grasp, “It’s a letter. From Mary.”

Arthur stills, as though he were suddenly made of stone. He stares at the envelope, his mind contrasting his petrified state with the way you can see the thoughts racing at the appearance of this letter.

But just as suddenly as he froze up, Arthur goes back to what he was doing, stuffing the letter down into his satchel in a blur before he’s back to digging in his trunk.

“You aren’t gonna read it?” you press, watching Arthur oddly.

Ignoring your question, Arthur stands back up, handing you a worn, black leather jacket.

“Here. This’ll keep you from gettin' soaked.”

Frowning, you take the offered jacket, pulling it over your shoulders as you set Arthur with a pointed look as he moves to his cot, “So you’re just gonna ignore me then?”

“I’ll read it when I get the time,” he tells you gruffly, his tone speaking more for you to drop it than anything else, “Now, you gotta remind me to take to you the store to get proper clothing.”

You grow a bit frustrated with the man then, “Ain’t we already done that?”

“There’s still some more that you need.”

“And what money am I to buy it with?”

Arthur raises a brow at your bite, “Thought you still had that money from the homestead job we worked.”

“Arthur, I don’t really give a damn about that right now.”

“I figured.”

Huffing, you cross your arms, looking out of Arthur’s tent and feeling your wet hair dripping onto your skin. Your eyes scan the view past the oak that your tent is set up near, and to the woods that are lost to the swirling gray mist of rain that falls so heavy from the sky.

Trying to calm yourself some from how he got under your skin, you look back in his direction once you feel a bit more yourself.

And when you do, your eyes meet his.

He blinks, ducking his head away, and he places his hands together as you curiously study him.

What’s gotten into him?

The outlaw sighs, and you can see the lines of his frown, at the way his knuckles are bruised and freshly cut with the way the rainwater that lingers on his skin is tinged pink around his split flesh.

“What happened with Micah?” you ask, quiet and with concern tinging your words.

“A better question to ask is what _didn’t_ happen with Micah,” Arthur hisses lowly, and he leans back in his cot, placing his back against his wagon, “That bastard, he’s just nothin’ more than trouble.”

Resigning, you walk over, sitting next to Arthur on his cot.

“What grief did he cause this time?”

“He was a damn murderer there,” Arthur’s voice drops low, his drawl gritty and furious, “I bust him out of that damned cell, and instead of us runnin’ immediately when the law set in on us, he kept tellin’ me he had somethin’ to do... Next thing I know, he’s bargin’ into this house, ‘bout near the edge of town near the river. Just busts down the door and shoots a man and a woman that were inside, and took great joy out of it. I was outside, tryin’ to keep the law off us, and I couldn’t do a damn thing, Wolf...”

Shuddering at the imagery that Arthur paints for you, you whisper, “I don’t think there’s anythin’ you could’ve done...”

“I could’ve let him swing,” Arthur growls, “I should’ve. Should’ve just told Dutch no, for once. Not gone to get that son of a bitch,” Arthur stands abruptly, rubbing his chin as he goes to the corner of his tent, looking out towards camp, “Those people’s deaths were just as much of my fault as they were his.”

“Arthur Morgan, that ain’t true, and you know it,” the outlaw’s face draws up as he hangs his head, the way his eyes narrow at the ground only furthering you in your plight, “You ain’t responsible for what Micah did. You never are, and never will be. He’s a sick bastard of his own creation, and don’t you dare think his faults apply to you.”

“Sure it doesn’t.”

“Arthur,” you chide.

“It was a mess that could’ve been avoided. And I’m going to have a hell of a bounty in Strawberry now for it too, for all it got me.”

Sighing, you dart your eyes to where Baylock does not accompany Arthur’s Walker, just like how Micah did not accompany the outlaw when he returned.

“Where is that bastard, anyway?”

“I told him to stay gone for a while... I don’t want him here. Wish I could just tell him to never come back, but that would just break poor Dutch’s heart,” Arthur kicks at the ground, the toe of his boot flinging mud onto the grass with the motion, “He said he’s gonna try and work up a present for him, somethin’ to show Dutch how sorry he is. You know, like adding honey to the vinegar that already killed the flies.”

You snort, “What are you on about, Morgan? Not even flies like Micah.”

At that, Arthur does chuckle, and your lips stretch lightly at the way it seems to take a bit of his strain away.

The sound of his muted laugh dies, and Arthur breathes out through his nose, crossing his arms as he leans against the post of his tent and looks to you.

“Well, guess this day is shot,” he ticks his head towards the rain that drenches the camp before he looks back to you, “Weather like this, can’t hardly get anythin’ done.”

“I wouldn’t say shot, per se. I was well into a book when you got here.”

At that, Arthur quirks a brow, “You was readin’?”

“Yes. Mary-Beth lent me a book. She has occasionally since my leg’s been busted. I found that a good story can be just as entertainin’ as bank robberies.”

“A mighty comparison to make,” Arthur snickers, and he tilts his head at you, “Say, I think I know how we can spend our day?”

Eyeing him humoredly, you ask, “And that is?”

“Grab that book, and we can start.”

 

**\---**

A few hours pass, and the grand downpour that was the height of the storm as lightened. It still rains, but it’s lighter now, a decent drizzle that offers ambiance as you read, and Arthur works.

You’ve gotten a bit deeper in your book, enjoying it immensely as Arthur works at your side. He’s both writing and drawing, and you know that you would’ve gotten further into your story had you not occasionally glanced over to watch Arthur sketch.

It’s been a while since you’ve seen his journal— not since Blackwater, and during your first initial week with the gang. Things had been... different then. You and Arthur, you were still strangers, dancing in the same space around one another, as unsure as you were curious. And now here you are. And things are... different.

You stopped reading a while ago, your book still open, but your eyes no longer following the rows and lines of words, but rather, each graceful mark and slide of Arthur’s pencil as he works in the lines of what looks like fur.

“I think an owl blinks more than you,” Arthur jokes, not glancing up from his page as he draws.

Blushing, you snort, “Sorry. I know I’m starin’... Just... Hard not to.”

“S’okay. I don’t mind,” Arthur murmurs back, moving his hand further up the page, working the graphite onto the paper expertly with each mark he makes, “Just odd to have an audience for once.”

Humming, your eyes follow his pencil as he continues his sketch, the palm of his hand obscuring the face he’d started on while you were reading, “You don’t draw much in front of others?”

“I tend to leave expression for times that allow it,” Arthur stops to gesture lightly with his journal, “You’ve met these folk, ain’t nothin’ about them permittin’ of such leisure.”

“I’m sure they tend to bother you a lot.”

“Well, I just don’t often have the time,” Arthur admits, working on now what looks like the tip of an ear, “But occasionally, days like today roll around, and I can have just a moment to myself to make what I’ve been meanin’ to.”

You’re about to ask what Arthur intends on creating today when he pulls his hand back, revealing his finished sketch.

“Arthur...” you murmur.

On the page is his finished sketch, now exposed to your viewing. It’s beautiful, as accurate as it is skilled, and your lips part as you take in every detail of his drawing.

“Fittin’, isn’t it?”

It’s a wolf, a timber one to be exact, with its black coat and head ducked, its eyes searching a world that you cannot see.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“Thank you,” Arthur murmurs, and he hums, setting his pencil in the spine of his journal, and you look away right before he shuts it, “How goes the book?”

Closing your book, you pat the cover fondly as your lips upturn at the corners, “It’s good, I’m definitely enjoying the read.”

“What’s it about?”

Flushing, you shake your head, “Ah, ain’t nothin’ really... Just a story is all.”

“Well, every story’s gotta be about somethin’ or another, right?” Arthur pivots his torso towards you, and the left corner of his mouth lifts as he gestures with his arms, “It can be about kings and their kingdoms, about times beyond from now. It’s all about that grandeur, isn’t it?”

“Well, uh... I suppose so... But this story is more about people like you and me,” you clarify.

“That so?” Arthur’s brow raises, and he leans his elbow down onto his knee as he lifts his chin in regards towards the book, “And what kind of things does a book of such familiar subject have to say about folks of our nature?”

Your cheeks burn red as you set the book to your side, “Well, I... I’m not sure what way I can frame it...”

Arthur curiously eyes the cover of the book, and his eyes narrow as he reads the title, your hand moving to cover it far too late. A smirk breaks out on his lips, and Arthur chuckles openly as you try to hide the book away. The way he looks at you is nothing but entertained, especially as you fluster upon his discovery.

“My my, _The Alluring Herdsman,_ ” Arthur teases you then as you glare his way, “What a riveting read that must be for you.”

“Listen, when Mary-Beth gave it to me, I too was a little judgmental at first, but it’s a good story. The title just... well it sells it short,” you try to explain defensively, “It’s not just all romance.”

“But there is romance—”

“What story doesn’t have romance?” you pointedly ask, and Arthur’s eyes narrow a little on you as you go on, “Stories are about people. They’re about their hardships, their luck. Their success, their failures. But most of all, it’s about how they feel. We see the world through another person’s eyes, letter by letter, Arthur. And last I checked, everyone was capable of fallin’ in love. And it happens, even in stories.”

“You say that like it happens in real life...”

“Of course it happens in real life,” breathing, you look at him then, “You ain’t ever been in love?”

Arthur darkens a bit, overshadowed by a melancholy that you weren’t expecting, “I thought I was... A few times... Was wrong on both accounts.”

Your eyes fall much like your stomach at his words, and a part of you regrets asking. Shuffling your feet some, you go to apologize, your mouth open to speak when Arthur beats you to the punch.

“What about you, Wolf?” he asks, his voice pastel in comparison to all the saturated shades he’s been before, “You ever think you loved someone?”

Swallowing, you think back to when you were young.

When the days were tinged in gold and light, never clouded over by the darkness of misfortune that would eventually overcast it. When you would run out from the cabin you called home and into the thick forest, your father’s worried voice calling after you as you wove through the moss and tree roots. When the most you cried over was a scraped knee or when your father forbid you from going out by yourself.

When you grew older, and things began to change. When the girls in town looked at you as an oddity and something strange, when the boys began to look at you differently.

The world itself didn’t change. Maybe it only tilted further on its axis in some way, just slightly askew for things to feel as off as they did.

But the truth was, you changed. You became a woman.

And your father, he did not fear over you wandering off and getting lost in the woods, but rather, for the men that eyed you as though you were nothing more than the cuts of meat you would bring to sell in town.

You didn’t understand, didn’t know why. You had only ever known your home, the forest, a saddle, the smooth wood of your bow against your fingertips.

Love was a foreign notion, and lust its unfamiliar companion.

When your father explained to you why he begged of you not to go into town on your own, you had seemingly obliged him, not truly knowing what for and finding his reluctance unfair.

But there came a time, when you snuck away, only freshly eighteen, that you were made to understand.

You had only wanted to get your father a gift. A surprise for his birthday.

You had been saving your money for months, sneaking in extra pelts you had acquired, and other items you managed to find along the way. All sold right under your father’s nose when you went into the market in town.

Ten dollars. It was meager, at least for what you intended to get him.

It was your father’s repeater, beloved and worn with years of use. The barrel bent and in need of replacing, the damaged metal rusted now.

Your father, he was never able to fix it, trying to save what little money he could towards you. And when his gun was damaged, a mistake of your own doing, you felt only worse for it.

The gunsmith in town, he was able to work something out with you, knowing of your father, of the work he did. He had looked at you and smiled, treating you like a child, but in a timid, almost naive way.

But he still repaired the gun, fixing it and handing it back to you once you had paid.

You had left his shop with the repaired repeater, a smile as wide as Flat Iron Lake plastered on your face as you went to find D’or hitched further up the road.

Passing by what you thought was a vacant alleyway, you felt your heart thunder as a hand wrapped itself around your mouth, the other yanking you back.

It was the boys from earlier, smiling with nothing but teeth as they circled around you. Your father’s gun had no ammo, and you sure as hell weren’t a great shot to begin with since he was terrified of you ever picking one up. And the boys, they knew this, laughing to one another as you huddled against the gritty brick wall at your back, the fabric of your dress catching just like your breath as your fear grew and grew.

Like vultures, they circled, as ravenous and wanting as those wretched creatures as they dove in, cutting off your scream.

And then, as quickly as they had come, they were yanked away.

You were shaking, huddling in on yourself and crying, feeling nothing but adrenaline and terror as you heard fists meeting flesh, and yelled curses that were muffled by your arms as you balled up.

It felt like ages, how long it all went on, and you remember how you had felt a hand press against your knee, at the way you screamed in terror.

But nothing came of it.

The hand pulled itself away immediately, and you blinked your eyes open in shock. And to your surprise, you came face to face with a boy around your age, maybe a little older. His green eyes were locked onto you, his face drawn up in concern.

You eyed him wildly, looking him over from where his brown hair had fallen over onto his face, and to where your gaze was pinned on his knuckles, raw and bleeding from the fight.

“ _I ain’t gonna hurt you, miss,_ ” he had said, and he leaned down closer, his voice as gentle as it was warm, “ _I promise._ ”

“ _Y-You—”_

“ _They ain’t gonna hurt you no more, either,_ ” it was another promise, as certain as the hand he held out to you.

And something began to twinge in your chest. Like butterflies, emerging from their cocoon, like birds taking their first terrifying leap of faith from the nest in the hopes they could fly. The first bud of a flower in spring, the initial sliver of the moon as she materializes.

Something embryonic and emerging forth, and it took your breath away.

He had lifted you up, his palm warm and mostly soft, and your breathing stuttered much like your words.

“ _I— I—”_

Before you could say anything, could even thank the boy, a shrill whistle cut through the air, causing you both to jump.

Two deputies came running in your direction, and the boy paled, immediately tensing and running.

You called after him, but he didn’t stop, sprinting and cutting through the alley right as the two deputies reached you, disappearing as quickly as he had come.

Even years down the road, you think about him, about the way your heart stuttered in your chest from both gratitude and something else. A feeling you’d never felt, but had only ever been told of. Either with the whimsicality of the girls in town or with the warning of your father.

And now here you are, a number of years after, thinking of him at Arthur’s questioning.

You barely remember his face, blurred with the passing of time, but you remember his kindness, his compassion.

The way he had made you feel.

“Wolf?”

You blink, knocked back into the present where Arthur tilts his head towards you, and you hum, tightening your fingers into the mattress below.

“I think,” you start, voice mellowed with thought and kind memory, “I met someone once. With the promise of it... But that was years ago.”

Arthur nods at your answer, looking back over camp as the rain steadily falls before glancing to you, “You still think it happens out here, then?”

You stare at Arthur then, the lengths of his hair now damp from where it was drying from being soaked from the rain, his green eyes squinted as he looks to you. His skin is crinkled, freckled from where it was kissed by the sun.

You think of everything you’ve been through now, from the day your father died and he was sent your way, to now.

From Arthur taking you into camp and defending you from Strauss, to trying to keep you from the life he leads. From helping you find a place in the gang to fleeing Blackwater. From Arthur saving your life, to you killing Francis.

From you being at each other's throats, to having each other's backs.

And now here, in this limbo of sorts, the air carrying electricity not born from the dying storm overhead. The way Arthur looks at you, his breathing slowing, his eyes slowly growing soft and his lips gently parting, the split in their flesh healing like the fresh scar forming on your right thigh.

You feel a hint of that familiar fluttering, that faint flourish from years ago.

The seeping of warmth to where you did not know you were cold, a memory of a feeling you only expected to feel in recollection instead of the present.

“With the right person and with enough time,” you murmur, your words as tender as the rainfall on the canvas above you both, and their meaning just as encompassing in its cascade, “I know it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, and submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask


	7. Horseshoe II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ya, Wolf,” Mary-Beth chimes in as Tilly beams beside her, “We wanna know!” 
> 
> “That fool ran lone for a while, and you pop up and it’s like he sewed ya to his side,” Tilly remarks. 
> 
> “Hey,” you glance between the three of them, face burning and your mortification as evident as the way Karen munches on her forbidden fruit, “Things are just fine. They ain’t any different between how he is with y’all.” 
> 
> Mary-Beth shakes her head at that, “Oh, now that ain’t true, Wolf! It’s not for lack of respect or anythin’, but Arthur treats you differently than us.” 
> 
> “We’re like his annoying younger sisters,” Tilly tells you, “We’re family, but you? You’s special.” 
> 
> As you get near the doctor’s, your throat goes dry, “No I’m not. I don’t know why you all think there’s somethin’ when there’s not—” 
> 
> “Oh there is, you’re both just blinder than bats and in more denial than Molly about bein’—” Karen tosses the core of her apple while she dons a British accent, fanning herself daintily with her hand, “high society!” 
> 
> “She ain’t even from Britain, Karen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EDIT: a section was unfortunately not uploaded while I was using my friend's computer. it's fixed now! Apologies!
> 
> okay bitches, I pushed for ages to get this 4/20 post date!
> 
> I'll fix this later bc I'm at my friend's house playing "what do you meme?" so I'm strappin'!
> 
> Enjoy!~

A bee’s nest hangs up on the branch of the trees, woven together carefully with time and dedication. In it is its own little world, existing completely within the space of another. 

One of the workers crawls out, humming as it looks across the trails littered down below, eyeing for any possible predators as it readies its stinger—

## CRACK!

The shot rings out, and the nest falls to the ground, causing the bees to flurry as it lands on a small fire down below. It burns the husk, and the enveloping smoke causes the bees to flee, swarming out of the swath of trees and away from where their former nest burns. 

You stand at the mouth of the trail at camp, placing your carbine at your hip as Arthur whistles. 

“Not bad,” he tells you, taking his cigarette and bringing it near his mouth as he watches the rest of the nest becomes engulfed in flames, “Bit more practice, and you’ll be quite the shot yet.” 

“You always say I need a bit more practice,” you huff, stringing your carbine over your shoulder to grab a bucket of water at your side, “How much do I really need?” 

“Honestly?” Arthur starts as you both walk down the incline of the trail to extinguish the small blaze, “Not much... And say, you mentioned your daddy kept you away from guns till you were what, sixteen?” 

“About that, when he first taught me about guns. But I didn’t really get to shoot until I was eighteen... Man acted like I was gonna become a gunslinger as soon as I picked up a cattleman,” you joke. 

As you dump the water onto the charred husk of the bee’s nest, it hisses, throwing up a cloud of steam as Arthur chuckles, “By the rate you’re goin’ at, I can see why. Think you’s a natural, Wolf.” 

“Imagine that.” 

You kick the remnants of the hive, sighing. 

The had been a nuisance ever since the gang had come in, growing more and more irritated with the humans walking by every day. When they went and stung up Bill when he rode back into camp, it was decided for them to be taken care of. 

“It’s not every day you get to hunt bees, is it?” Arthur’s eyes twinkle with humor as he looks to you, nursing his cigarette and looking mighty pleased with himself. 

“Suppose not,” you shake your head, walking back into the inside of camp. 

You both pass by Kieran, who is nervously tending to the horses. You wave a greeting to him, but he about crawls back into that shell of his as he sees Arthur at your side. Your slight smile falls as Kieran all but trips against the bucket of grain at his feet, and Arthur chuckles at him as he flushes and tries to correct himself. 

“You’re far too mean to him,” you chastise Arthur then, sending him a sharp look, “Man goes out and saves your life for you to do what, laugh at his crossed feet?” 

“He’s an O’Driscoll, Wolf, through and through. So he saved my life? It don’t matter none to me,” Arthur huffs, tossing the crumpled butt of his cigarette to the ground, “’Sides. He should count himself lucky. We could’ve killed him a thousand times over before this.” 

“Maybe,” frowning, you look over to see Karen and the other girls begin to approach, “But sometimes, life has different plans for all of us.” 

“Arthur, Wolf!” Karen beams at you both, grinning from ear to ear as Tilly and Mary-Beth seem to dance on their toes at their sides, “We was wonderin’ if we could go into town?” 

And as Uncle joins you all, he adds, “I was talkin’ about goin’ to Ms. Grimshaw about the general store, and they caught me.” 

“Well, why are you askin’ me?” Arthur looks between all of them. 

“My, Morgan, three young women ask you to take them into town and you have to question it?” Karen huffs. 

Snorting, you look to her, “I’m standin’ right here, you know.” 

“Yeah, but you’s a free agent, and you always get to go everywhere with Arthur anyways,” Karen waves a hand as your mouth gapes lightly, “Come on, Arthur! We’re just askin’ you to drive one of the wagons!” 

Moving his eyes to Uncle, Arthur smirks, “And why can’t you do so this time, old man?” 

“I— well, I got Lumbago, Arthur,” he starts, but as all of you begin to laugh at him, he scowls, “Mighty judgmental, you are, but I insist it’s the truth! Havin’ to work the reins really takes it out on my back.” 

“Workin’ anythin’ takes out on you, old man,” Arthur shakes his head, looking over to the wagon at the edge of camp, “Alright, fine—” 

“Thank you, Arthur! Karen was about to _kill_ Grimshaw!” Mary-Beth giggles, and then she comes up to you, grabbing ahold of your wrist, “Come on, Wolf, sit in the back with us! It’s been too long since we’ve all talked to you!” 

As the girls pull you away, you look over your shoulder to Arthur who is watching you get pulled away, his head shaking from side to side and mouth split with amusement. Uncle goes to say something to him then, and you turn away, now bombarded with the questions and the conversation that the girls conjure up. 

“So, still a workin’ woman, we see?” Karen motions a hand to you as you settle into the back of the wagon with her. 

“Yes,” you hum, as both Mary-Beth and Tilly sit around you, “Guess not much has changed since Blackwater.” 

“Have you got to kill a man?” Karen asks, almost too excited for her own good. 

At her question, you frown, thinking of that night in Blackwater. 

Despite the time passed, you think about it often. Of Francis. Of pulling the trigger. 

The feel of hot, burnt gunpowder landing on your hand, the recoil that shook you beyond physicality. 

The sight of Francis crumpling to the floor, dead. 

You rub at your thigh, now fully healed after that dreaded moment, and you swallow thickly as Karen eyes you not with any disgust, but wonderment. 

“I... Just one,” you tell her. 

Unaware of the effect her question had, Karen sighs wistfully, “I wanna be able to shoot a man and not feel bad about it... To do somethin’ for once, ya know? Earn my keep in more than just chores and gettin' dragged at by Grimshaw?” 

“That’s one way to look at it...” you murmur. 

Beside you, Mary-Beth grabs ahold of your arm, looking just as entertained, “I’ve always dreamt about meetin’ a woman like you— you know, like the men I read about in my stories? Gives hope to girls like us that don’t wanna be nothin’ more than an ornamental housewife.” 

Across from her, Tilly snorts, “You got that right.” 

“While I’m honored in some ways to inspire you all, the grandeur here isn’t all it’s cracked up to be,” you look to them both as you hear Arthur and Uncle approaching the wagon now, “I mean, I literally just took care of a bee’s nest.” 

“And I washed Uncle’s damn union suit!” Karen hisses, glaring at the old man as he situates himself onto the driver’s bench, “Which, old man, if I _ever_ have an article of clothing come from you in such a state again, I’m just gonna do us all a favor and burn it!” 

“Hey now, ain’t that a bit cruel?” 

“Cruel was havin’ to wash that damn thing for you!” Karen snips, “You’re like a god damn hog, Uncle!” 

“Alright, alright, simmer down back there,” Arthur says as he settles on the bench, grabbing ahold of the reins and whipping the horses forward, “Now, I’m gonna go ahead and make one thing clear— we are not to make a huge mess of things while we’re in town.” 

“Oh, comin’ from the man that got the whole saloon in a brawl last time he visited?” Karen pokes with humor, “You should consider different company, Arthur, ‘cause that’s rich.” 

“Hey, it was a clean fight, nice n’ fair. And Bill, well, he was the one to start it. Can’t much be the reason when a feller came strikin’ at me.” 

“Well, no matter the cause, we should be wise to just have a good time without penalty,” Uncle says, clapping his hands against his knees, “Say, girls, how about you get us a start by singin’ one of them songs of yours?” 

As the wagon clears the few trees that shroud out Horseshoe Overlook, the girls begin to carry their tune. 

“ _Oh, now I got a girl in Berryville, that can’t be screwed ‘cause she’s too damn ill—”_

You grin as you listen in to them signing, as you don’t know the words to such a crass song. Mary-Beth at one point messes up the lyrics, laughing and having to restart the chorus as Arthur leads the wagon along. 

You’re having a good time listening, thumping your hand along to the beat when Arthur has to slow the wagon down abruptly. 

“Oh shit, my horse!” 

You and the girls look over the edge of your wagon to see a stagecoach with its harnesses empty, and its poor driver poorly attempting to hold the other from where it's gotten loose. It doesn’t help that the train passes by, blaring its horn as it passes on the tracks, startling the poor draft the man attempts to hold onto. 

“The other one’s over there!” 

Your attention shifts to a few yards off where a silver draft colt throws its head into the air, stomping its thick hoof down onto the ground and moving with agitation. 

“Go help him, Arthur!” Uncle insists, waving his hands in an attempt to usher the outlaw into action, “He ain’t ever gonna catch that horse, otherwise!” 

“Why are so quick to volunteer me, old man?” 

“Lumbago, remember? I swear, you kids nowadays—” 

“I ain’t a kid,” Arthur grumbles, “But I’ll go get that damn horse if you’d just hush up.” 

Arthur sets the reins down, and looks back over his shoulder, your eyes meet for a second before he hops down onto the muddied road below. 

“T-Thank you, sir!” the driver shouts to him, still trying to settle the draft at his side. 

“Yeah, just— gimme a sec!” 

You move to the other side of the wagon with Mary-Beth to watch as the outlaw approaches the draft. He’s slow, cautious, putting his hands out in front of him and speaking in low, unhurried tones. 

The draft seems to settle a little, not shifting as much and not running as Arthur nears. Then, carefully, he reaches forth, grabbing ahold of the colt’s lead and successfully getting him to follow as he praises him softly. 

“That’s it, Arthur!” Tilly encourages from the wagon, and Arthur sends her a look before glancing back to the draft behind him. 

He guides the colt back to the flushed driver, the man gushing thanks and gratefulness as he hooks the draft back up to his coach. He hands over something small to Arthur in gratitude, and Arthur nods to him before walking back to the wagon. 

As he approaches, Tilly whistles and smirks at the outlaw over the wooden side of the wagon, “Say, Arthur, you’re growin’ rather soft on us.” 

“I ain’t goin’ soft,” he huffs, his eyes landing on you for a moment before splitting away, “You don’t have any clue what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” 

“Arthur I knew years ago would’ve ridden by,” Uncle glances at him then, “So I reckon that means you’re goin’ soft.” 

“Hey, the only reason I didn’t ride by is because _you_ insisted that I didn’t,” Arthur points out grumpily as he gets the wagon moving again, “Besides, had you all not been here and if we didn’t need to lay low? . . . Well, I probably would’ve robbed him.” 

Collectively sharing a laugh at that, you shake your head as Mary-Beth snickers beside you. 

“What a gentleman you are, Arthur.” 

“Ain’t ever said I was or will ever be one!” he grins over his shoulder for a second before looking back towards the road as the wagon begins to approach Valentine. 

The air grows heavy with the smell of livestock, and as the horses work through the squelching mud, Tilly groans from where she pinches her nose. 

“God, I hate the smell of sheep...” 

“This here is a livestock town, so it’s pretty much their perfume here,” Uncle turns, looking back at you all as he rests his arm along the wooden board at his back, “Say, comin’ up this road here on the corner should be the sheriff’s office. I’d say there’s probably some bounties you could pick up there, Arthur.” 

“If we’re lucky enough, it can be our own,” he jokes. 

“Very funny, but it’s an honest way to earn a decent bit of cash.” 

Arthur snorts, “Yes. Much about us lies in honesty.” 

“Listen, it’s only a recommendation I made,” Uncle turns then, pointing to the end of the street as Arthur turns the corner, “Up there, that’s where the general store is, almost near the end of the road before the stables. If any of you need to grab anythin’, now’s the time!” 

“We don’t have money old man, so it’s theft or nothin’!” Karen shouts. 

As a few townsfolk overhear her and look your way, Arthur coughs and adds, “But it won’t be. Just best to only go into a store if you all plan on buyin’ anythin’.” 

“See, Arthur? _Soft,_ ” Karen tuffs before looking to you then, “Say, Wolf, are you gonna window-shop with that bag of dust and buzz killer, or are ya lookin’ to have a good time with us girls?” 

You don’t miss the way Arthur glances back at you to learn of your decision, and you shrug, feigning ignorance to his gaze. 

“Don’t think I need much of anythin’.” 

“Ha! You finally have to share her, Arthur!” Karen cries as Arthur stops the wagon near the stables at the end of the road, her fist held triumphantly in the air while your cheeks flush, “Come on, let’s go have ourselves some fun!” 

As he hops down from the driver’s seat, Arthur regards you lot seriously, his voice as stern as his expression as he gestures a hand to all of you, “Remember what I said— we’re not tryna cause any trouble while we’re here.” 

“Any _more_ trouble, thanks to you,” Karen sticks her tongue out at Arthur, and the man rolls his eyes playfully as she loops her arm with yours, “Come, Wolf, we best find ourselves some better company than the stuck in the mud behind us.” 

“Just stay out of it, Karen! And try and meet us back at the general store when you’re done!” 

“Okay, whatever you say, Arthur!” 

Laughing, Mary-Beth and Tilly join you, with Mary-Beth looping her arm through your free one, and Tilly taking to her side. You can hear Arthur making a comment to Uncle as the four of you begin to walk down the street. 

But at the sound of coughing, your attention shifts a little. There, at the corner where they are building something new, stands the man who broke up the street fight with Arthur and the massive man from the saloon. He looks rather frail, coughing into his handkerchief and all but going blue in the face as he rasps loudly for breath. Your brow pinches, but before your eyes can linger on him any longer, Karen jerks you back to the present. 

“Say, Wolf, you sure have been spendin’ a lot of time with Arthur. We never get to see you without him bein’ with ya somehow,” she starts, and the other girls look to you as your face reddens like the boxes of apples held out in front of the general store, especially as Karen nabs one. 

“Karen!” 

“They won’t miss it,” she states, wiping it against the purple skirt of her dress and taking a bite out of it, her words muffled past bits of apple as she chews, “But that sure doesn’t answer my question.” 

“Ya, Wolf,” Mary-Beth chimes in as Tilly beams beside her, “We wanna know!” 

“That fool ran lone for a while, and you pop up and it’s like he sewed ya to his side,” Tilly remarks. 

“Hey,” you glance between the three of them, face burning and your mortification as evident as the way Karen munches on her forbidden fruit, “Things are just fine. They ain’t any difference between how he is with y’all.” 

Mary-Beth shakes her head at that, “Oh, now that ain’t true, Wolf! It’s not for lack of respect or anythin’, but Arthur treats you differently than us.” 

“We’re like his annoying younger sisters,” Tilly tells you, “We’re family, but you? You’s special.” 

As you get near the doctor’s, your throat goes dry, “No I’m not. I don’t know why you all think there’s somethin’ when there’s not—” 

“Oh, there is, you’re both just blinder than bats and in more denial than Molly about bein’—” Karen tosses the core of her apple while she dons a British accent, fanning herself daintily with her hand, “high society!” 

“She ain’t even from Britain, Karen.” 

“She ain’t from high society, neither,” she snips, pouting out her bottom lip, her blonde ringlets falling about her face, “Least, not no more. Her stickin’ ‘round with Dutch just made her nothin’ more than a sad immigrant girl wishin’ for more in life than the silver spoon she gave up, all so she could eat with her hands here. But none of that’s the point—” she lets go of your arm then, swirling around as she cuts you and the other two girls off by stopping right in front of you, “—the point _tryin’_ to make is that you aren’t just some run of the mill girl with him, and that means somethin’.” 

Blinking at Karen, you squint your eyes and point an accusing finger her way, “Weren’t you the same ones that, when I first showed up, told me that this sort of thing wasn’t gonna happen?” 

“Yes! ‘Cause it doesn’t! Least, not till you came along!” Karen tilts her head then, “Jenny, bless her soul, threw herself at Arthur before she got interested in Lenny, and he ignored her. He ignored all of us, too. He even passes by any workin’ girl or man and he’ll put a no before his thank you every time! I told you, he doesn’t get this way with anyone. Well, anyone but you.” 

Crossing your arms, you look away, your voice quiet, “I have no idea what you’re on about...” 

“Wolf, he spends a lot of time with you. More than anyone else,” Tilly says then, and you glance at her from under your lashes, “Before you came along, he’d be out doin’ things for the gang for days on end by himself. Then, he’d come back to check in with us, maybe sleep or eat, and then he’d be gone before long.” 

“He still leaves,” you argue. 

“With you,” Mary-Beth smiles softly at you, and you press your lips together, “We’re just sayin’ that this is new, at least from how we’ve known Arthur for so long. It isn’t a bad thing! It’s honestly good for the both of you.” 

“I’ve never seen him as happy as he is now,” Tilly grins your way, “I’ve been here longer than these two, and you’ve made a difference, Wolf.” 

The sun cannot compare to the heat on your cheeks, and you look away, nodding lightly. 

“Okay, okay, we’ll let up now... Just wanted to check in, see what the big hoot was about,” Karen nudges your shoulder then before looking to where you stopped in front of the sheriff’s office, “And say, Uncle made a big hoot about bounties... Think we should check it out?” 

“I’m fine with waiting out here,” Mary-Beth says as Tilly comes up beside her. 

“Me too.” 

Waving a hand, Karen begins to head to the door, “Fun lot you are... Wolf and I will be back in a sec!” 

You follow behind Karen, still unsettled from the earlier conversation as Karen practically bounces up to the board of posters on the wall. You come up beside her, looking at the grainy, inked pictures and reading the words framing them. 

“You women don’t look like bounty hunters. Well, you with the carbine, you don’t seem versed.” 

You both jump at the deep voice, and you turn to see a man near the back of the office. At first, you’re wondering who he is, until that big, gold badge flashes at you, and your mouth dries like the desert. He’s eyeing you both with some amount of humor as he tweaks the end of his mustache, his hip placed against the edge of the table against the back wall as he watches you. 

“We were just lookin’ at the posters, sir,” Karen says, as serious as you’ve ever heard her as the sheriff leans up and begins to approach. 

“I figured you are. But you,” the sheriff’s brown eyes land on you then, slightly narrowing as he stops about two feet or so away from you, his hands moving to his gun belt, “You seem like you’re interested.” 

Looking between the sheriff and Karen, you stutter, “I, uh, w-well,” you take a breath then, “I’ve never taken a bounty,” you admit. 

“Well, they can be easy sometimes for workin’ women like yourself. I’ve known plenty who’ve come through here over the years, reputable creatures, they were, and just as proficient. We may be a livestock town that has quite a bit of money come through the bank, but these bounties here are still a pretty penny to come across. You seem like you could handle yourself enough for that man, Benedict Allbright.” 

Shifting your eyes to the board, you find the man’s poster hung up among the others, and you narrow your gaze upon his sketch, the charge of quackery standing out to you. 

“What’d he do?” 

“Snake oil salesman for lack of a better term, ‘cept his so-called medicines are far from life savin’ or even harmless. That tonic of his has killed a lot of folk since he tried to sell it Saint Denis. The doctor’s association down there kicked him out. Should’ve been enough of a clue. But he’s been running around Lemoyne for a little over a year before workin’ his way up through the Heartlands ever since.” 

Your lips purse as you think those words over, and you glance back to the sheriff, “You said the association kicked him out?” 

“He tried to present it to them, say it was a supposed _miracle_ cure,” the sheriff chuckles coldly, his eyes boring holes into the man’s sketch, “Only miracle they get is meetin’ they’re maker once it’s done and over with. Makes ‘em sick it does. Starts with them throwin’ up and only gets worse. Apparently, he believes Oleander Sage to be anythin’ other than poisonous.” 

_There was a man, in Saint Denis... There was a meeting there, a collection of various doctors who congregate in the city and discuss their findings in medicine._

_He was also ejected from the meeting, told to relocate himself “or else.”_

_I don’t remember his name, as I was unfortunately too inebriated to recall anything other than my pounding head the following morning, but he did offer me his so-called “special tonic.”_

_Even I can tell that this recipe is one for disaster._

_Oleander sage? It’s a common ingredient in poisons if memory serves me correctly..._

You pale, and Karen looks to you, her brow pinching, “Wolf?” 

Without hesitation, you grab onto the bounty poster, ripping it off the wall and folding it into your pocket. 

“Where was he last seen?” you ask. 

The sheriff smirks at your reaction, seemingly enjoying how your unease was replaced with steeled resolve upon your realization, “Around the Dakota River near town is where he’s said to be campin’ out. It’s not too far. And a man like Allbright, the only way he’d do you in is through sheer luck, long as you don’t take that tonic of his.” 

“Thank you, sheriff.” 

“Just make sure you bring him back in alive,” he makes sure to press before tipping his hat to you both, “Good luck.” 

As you begin to leave his office, Karen rushes up to your side, “Jesus, Wolf, what was that?” 

“Unfinished business,” you tell her coolly, stepping out of the office to find both Mary-Beth and Tilly went, “Now, where did they go?” 

“Unfinished business? How in the hell did you know that man?” Karen pushes as you take the lead, looking down the street and alleyways as you pass. 

“I didn’t,” you hear a noise then, and the muffled sound of Tilly’s voice as your pick up your pace, “Hold on, somethin’s not right...” 

Karen gasps as you find Tilly at the end of the alleyway by the doctors, held against the wall by a man who seems far too familiar with her to be just an upset stranger as he curses her very name while he cages her in. 

Without hesitation, you bring your carbine into your hands, cocking it ominously as your voice echoes down the narrow sides of the alley. 

“Think it’d be best if you left, mister.” 

The man’s head shoots up, his eyes widening a little at the barrel of your carbine being aimed at him. 

“There ain’t no problem here,” his attempt at defusing the situation only irks you, and you raise your carbine just a little higher in unspoken warning, making him lift his hands and pace backward as he swallows, “I was just leavin’.” 

“That you are,” you grit out as you hear a mass of footsteps come up behind you. 

Once he’s a foot or so away from her, Tilly takes the opportunity to dart away, running towards you and Karen at the mouth of the alley as the man glares at her retreat. 

“You best watch yourself, Ms. Jackson! We ain’t forgot about you!” 

Another gun clicks, this time, a revolver that joins your carbine in its aim as Arthur comes to stand beside you. 

“And it’s best that you learn that we don’t forget either, partner,” Arthur growls. 

The man runs then, not hesitating as Tilly breathes out sharply behind you both. You and Arthur don’t lower your guns for a moment still, until you’re sure that fool is gone. And as Arthur holsters his Cattleman, and you throw the strap of your carbine over your shoulder, he looks between all of you. 

“What was that all about?” 

“Unfinished business,” Tilly hisses. 

“Well, it’s best we head back into camp before anyone attempts to finish it. Last thing we need is to shoot a bastard in town, even if he deserves it.” 

Mary-Beth and Karen move to Tilly to comfort her as Uncle leads the way, motioning for the girls to follow as you and Arthur hand at the back of the group. The outlaw glances at you from the corner of his eye then, regarding you oddly. 

“So,” he starts, and you can hear his curiosity as plain as the drawl in his voice, “I see you got to Tilly before I did...” 

“Yeah,” you glance to him then, “What about it?” 

“Nothin’, just... Didn’t expect to find you, gun raised, at the ready,” he hums, looking towards the ground in front of him as the others get into the wagon. 

“Well... I guess it’s somethin’ you’re gonna have to get used to.” 

“Why’s that?” Arthur says with some concern as you both stall on the porch of the general store. 

“Well, with uncle ranting and ravin’ and he did about the sheriff’s office and bounties there, Karen decided to check them out. You know how she is,” you say, to which Arthur nods as he rubs at his chin, “And I... well, I picked one up.” 

Arthur’s eyes widen, and he dips his head at you, voice lowering, “Wolf—” 

“It’s him,” you murmur, and Arthur’s rebuttal dies in his throat at the way your hands shake, “It’s the man who gave Francis the recipe for the tonic that killed my father.” 

Arthur breathes out a curse, and he pinches his brow just as he does the bridge of his nose. 

“He’s just down here at the Dakota River, near here,” you start, almost pleading with Arthur as you can see him already preparing to argue with you, “He’s wanted alive. Should be quick and easy, fifty dollars cash.” 

“You ain’t ever done a bounty hunt before,” Arthur points out, looking tired as you deflate some, “I get why you wanna do it. I’d never say it isn’t just in some way, but how can you be sure it’s him? That he’s the bastard who did it?” 

“Francis wrote about him, in his journal. Now, he didn’t mention him by name, but he did say he was kicked from that doctor’s association meeting down in Saint Denis just as he was. The man was apparently trying to push a tonic that uses Oleander Sage. And, when I asked about his charge, the sheriff told me the same thing happened with Benedict. That’s too specific to be anyone else, Arthur.” 

“Shit, okay,” Arthur huffs, putting his hands on his hips as he looks out onto the road, “But what do you want me—” 

“Hey! I know you!” 

You turn, seeing a man looking Arthur dead in the eyes until he also looks to you. You faintly recognize him, from a time that feels so long ago now. He’s from Blackwater, one of the men you argued with at the bank for eons about getting a loan for your father, only to be dragged out of the door in denial. 

At his appearance, you feel an ire rise within you, but before anything else can happen, the man blurts out even more. 

“And you! You both were in Blackwater!” he stumbles back, nearly slipping in the mud as Arthur takes on step towards him. 

“Hey now, that’s quite an assumption to make,” Arthur starts, and there’s an edge to his voice then, “How about we talk this out—” the man darts, running full speed until he’s about on his horse as After starts after him, “Shit!” 

He knocks into a man, the one from before that you had seen by the houses when you first arrived. Arthur doesn’t stall, even as the man falls to the ground hard, coughing as he makes an impact with the mud. 

“Arthur!” 

“I’ll be back! Take the others back to camp, and meet me back here with my horse!” Arthur shouts over his shoulder as he hops onto a nearby Morgan, the poor stallion underneath him almost rearing as he hops onto its saddle. 

Catching sight of this, a man rushes forth from the general store past you, yelling, “Hey, my horse!” 

“I’m borrowin’ it!” Arthur shouts back, right before he really lays in with his spurs and passes the corner of the hotel and is lost from sight. 

The man sighs, and glances to you, “Your husband better not be lyin’.” 

At the label, you cough, and the man eyes you oddly as you gather yourself. 

“H-He ain’t,” you sputter, unable to correct the poor man as you go to rush the one struggling to stand up in the road. 

He’s covered in mud, looking rather pitiful as you slow and come to his side. He coughs into his hand, the sound a wet, ragged sound as your face scrunches in concern. 

“Sir, are you alright?” 

It takes a second for him to come out of the spell, but he looks to you, eyes bloodshot as he manages a weak grin before clearing his throat roughly, “I— I’m about as fine as can be, miss. Thank you f-for helpin’ me.” 

“It ain’t no problem,” you murmur, helping him stand and walk as you guide him over to the small table he has set up, “I’m sorry my friend bumped into you. He’s... He’s unfortunately doin’ somethin’ he can’t let go of at the moment.” 

“We all have errands in this life that can’t be stopped for anythin’, I understand,” he smiles, and when he manages to get behind his table, he coughs a few more times and looks to you, “I just appreciate that you were able to come up after him as you did. Not many would’ve bothered. A lot of people don’t in this town...” 

Wondering what he means but such a thing, it’s then that you notice the sign on his table. 

“ _Donations for the poor,_ ” you quote, and you look back up to him, “Not many have done so, have they.” 

“’Fraid not,” the man says with a somber smile, “There’s a lot of people sufferin’ in this world, just as we are... I do understand that not most have the money to truly spare them from a life of sufferin’ in poverty, but surely one can even spare some change? This world is built on greed, but maybe, if we try and put a bit of kindness back into it, we can change it... People like you, miss. It starts with you. Whether you pick an old bird up out of the mud or donate, it’s those little acts that make the biggest differences.” 

The man looks away, seeming to start to pack up his stand as you feel your gut shift. 

Pausing, you think it over for a moment right as the man goes to tuck his donation box away, and you sigh. You go into your pocket, pulling out your billfold to grab a ten dollar bill. 

The man’s eyes widen, and his jaw drops as you place the bill inside of the box. 

“M-Miss—” 

“Five dollars, from both myself and my friend who bumped into you,” you tell him. 

“T-Thank you, miss,” the man says with true sincerity, his reddened eyes looking almost watery in light of your actions, “God, he sees all. The bad, and the good. None of it goes unnoticed,” he tells you, taking the donation box and holding it tightly, “It surely doesn’t with me.” 

“I hope it helps,” you murmur, and you step away, leaving the man behind as you move to the wagon where Uncle and the girls reside. 

The girls are quiet in the back, and even Uncle is unusually serious as you hop into the driver’s seat to take the reins. Worry pricks at you as you reverse the wagon and Uncle can tell as you curse under your breath. 

“Arthur will take care of that fool,” he assures you, grinning as he does with those rosy, cherubic cheeks of his, “Ain’t no need to worry, Wolf.” 

You crack the reins, guiding the horses down the road that Arthur took down on, “Think I’m goin’ to no matter what... He recognized both of us, from when we were in Blackwater.” 

“Shit... well, it won’t matter any. Arthur will get him, and he’ll make sure he won’t speak none.” 

That has your gut twist a little, “And how will he make sure of that?” 

“In whatever way he needs,” Uncle says easily, despite the daunting room for assumption left in such term. 

“Say, you okay, Tilly?” you ask, attempting to distract yourself as you begin to head out of town. 

Behind you, you hear the girls quiet, and Tilly’s voice speaks up from their huddle, “Yes... ‘Bout as good as I can be.” 

“Who was that guy anyway?” 

“Someone I used to know from a small gang I used to run with,” the way her bitterness seeps into her voice is nothing short of irate, “He was one of the Foreman boys. Bastards can’t leave me alone even though I made it clear I was done wit’ ‘em.” 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they got the message now,” you assure her, “And if they didn’t, they got Arthur and me to answer to.” 

“Oh, that they sure do!” she chirps, “Say, you’re really lookin’ like quite the outlaw now! I thought it was Arthur at the end of that alleyway before I saw it was you!” 

“She didn’t even hesitate!” Karen praises you from the back of the wagon then, “As soon as she saw what was happenin’, that gun was in her hands! I thought for a second she was about to shoot him right then and there!” 

“As much as Arthur says for us to stay out of trouble, I wouldn’t have minded such a thing,” Tilly jests, and the girls laugh. 

You steer the wagon past the train station and over the tracks as you huff. 

“You guys act like I’m about to go raise hell.” 

“Well, ain’t ya with that bounty ya picked up?” Karen asks. 

“Bounty?” Uncle squints at you then, “You got one of ‘em?” 

“Yeah, some son of a bitch named Benedict-somethin'! All the sheriff had to do was tell Wolf about him, and she was just nippin’ his poster off the board!” 

Mary-Beth gasps then, and you glance at her to see her hold up a hand over her mouth, “You ain’t goin’ after a killer, are you?” 

“Oh, he’s a killer alright!” Karen boasts, grinning from ear to ear, “Now, he ain’t one to use a gun like Miss Lupine over here, but, he’s got a tonic that’s killed a lot of folk. Method don’t matter if you get the same result!” 

Tilly snorts, “Damn, you are just puttin’ every expectation of us women to shame, aren’t you?” 

“Listen, I took the bounty because there’s somethin’ I’m takin’ care of with it. It’s not somethin’ I intend to do on the regular,” you clarify, and even Uncle makes a noise of disappointment at that, “What?” you ask, your eyes moving between all of them. 

“I think I’d like ya better if you kept it up. Laundry work isn’t exactly becomin’ of ya,” Uncle explains. 

Huffing, you begin to aim for the distant alcove of trees that cover Horseshoe, “I don’t care what’s becomin’ of me. I just wanna take care of this one loose end and then I’m done and back to what I have been doin’ so far.” 

“Don’t be like that! You’d be just like one of my books!” Mary-Beth sighs wistfully, leaning on the wooden edge of the wagon’s side and looking out into the growing heights of the nearby Cumberland Forest, “Can’t you imagine? A woman living her life, free and able to do as she pleases? Not havin’ to worry about getting' hogtied by a marriage to a man they don’t want?” 

Tilly hums in agreement, “Say, Wolf, you’re the reason why the world is startin’ to change for us women.” 

“Now, I don’t think that’s the case, really,” Karen argues, “This world ain’t changin’ for women. Not in a major sense. We’re just ridin’ along men’s coattails until we can somehow break through is all. Well, most of us anyways. Wolf here is out for herself!” 

“No I aint, and I ain’t becomin’ no gunslinger or bounty hunter,” you lay on a bit firmly, and the girls and Uncle start to hush as they take note of your growing irritation, “Listen, I appreciate you all tryin’ to encourage me to be somethin’ more, but I can’t ever be somethin’ I’m not, okay?” 

You manage to pull the wagon in through the canopy of oaks and maple as the horses slow their canter. And when the wagon slows to a complete stop, Uncle is the first to hop out, while the girls clamber one after the other. 

You jump down, landing onto the ground with a sigh. The girls look to you, sending you a small smile and goodbye as they head out into the rest of the camp, leaving you to your lonesome at the wagon. 

Crossing your arms, you lean against the wood, tilting your hat up so you can look at the breaks of clouds in the sky. The wind blows past, carrying a bit of chill and the smell of campfire with it, and you exhale, letting it take your breath along with it. 

Settled, you lean back off the wagon, heading to one of the main hitches outside the camp to where D’or and Arthur’s Walker reside. With them, there’s Kieran, and he’s actually got D’or’s saddle off as he brushes her, whispering things to her until you approach. 

Your beloved Missouri Fox Trotter seems rather pleased to see you, nickering at you and moving her head into your palm for a quick pet. She swishes her tail, and Kieran grins at you. 

“Howdy, Ms. Broce,” he tells you kindly, bringing the brush down to his side and away from D’or’s gleaming coat, “This beauty yours?” 

“Hey, Kieran. And yes, it is,” you grin at him then, “She didn’t give you any trouble, did she?” 

Shaking his head, Kieran grins, “Nah. She’s as kind as they come for her age. Say, she’s a pretty hard horse to come by, her breed. She’s a Fox Trotter, from what I can tell... Amber champagne coat too... How much did you pay for her?” 

You laugh, and when Kieran makes a sour face, you have to clarify the reason for your giggling. 

“Nah, I didn’t steal her. Never had to,” he frowns as you continue, “I raised her. Had her since she was a foal,” running a hand along her mane, she nickers at you as Kieran watches, “My mother’s horse had her when I was about fifteen or so, and I’ve been sure to stick with her ever since.” 

“Well, she’s a little thinner than I’d like and she needs new shoes soon, but otherwise she looks great,” Kieran smiles, “I can tell you take good care of her.” 

“She would be at a better weight if I’d come here sooner,” you admit softly, petting D’or sadly, “It was because of where I was before I came... I didn’t have much even for myself. She was almost sticks and bones when Arthur picked me up before Blackwater.” 

“She’s recovered fast then.” 

“That she has.” 

Humming, Kieran grabs your saddle to get her ready for you to leave, “What’s her name?” 

“D’or.” 

Kieran’s face crinkles with delight, and you snicker at how he seems like a small child in the presence of sweets, “D’or?” he tests out, the word foreign and a little off in his mouth, “Where’d you get the inspiration from that?” 

“My momma, she knew some French,” you tell him ruefully, working a small knot out of the mare’s pale mane, “My last name, it’s actually French ‘cause of her. She taught me a few words before she passed when I was young... D’or. It means golden.” 

“Ah, now that’s beautiful, Ms. Broce. Very befittin’ of her,” he tempers some, voice growing dim, “My pappy, he came down from Ireland and died first, and momma, she died last. Cholera got both of ‘em,” he fixes the straps of your saddle on D’or’s side, sighing, “I worked at the stables as a boy. I knew the horses there like nothin’ else. And then, when my parents passed, they kicked me out. I wandered. And when I got older, I went into the army, and that didn’t work out. And when the O’Driscolls came along, they gave me a choice— ride wit’ ‘em, or die... So... I guess it wasn’t much of a choice.” 

You’re quite as he finishes the last of the saddles’ straps, and he gives D’or a good pat. 

“And now here I am. With you all. But still, with the horses,” he smiles, but the expression is tinged with melancholy, “They’re the only things that still tend to make sense wit’ me.” 

The former O’Driscoll looks to you, and you look back, pensive. 

“I know it seems like you’re tradin’ one shit place in the world for another, but...” you pause as Kieran glances down to his boots, “I think... With time, it’ll get better. And I think this is the last one you’ll ever need.” 

“Thanks, Ms. Broce...” 

Grinning to him as he unhooks Arthur’s Walker for you, you duck your head slightly, “Thanks for cleanin’ up my girl.” 

“Anytime... I’d say she’s about as perfect as Branwen, but you know where my loyalties lie.” 

As you saddle up, you glance over to the Flaxen Roan Walker and snicker, “That I do.” 

“Well... I gotta take care of Quicksilver... Afraid he got a bit of an infection while in the mountains,” he tells you, stepping aside, “See you later, Ms. Broce.” 

“You too, Kieran.” 

He waves you off, going over to the other horses as you whistle for Arthur’s Walker while you head out to the main road. 

The colt follows dutifully behind you as you move past Charles while on duty. A quick word to him, and then, you’re spurring D’or into a light gallop, heading back the way you just came from Valentine. 

You think about all that the girls said, from how they adore the idea of you being some woman of standing similar to the men in the gang. 

They all feel like dreams, of wishes spoken onto stars or steepled hands among church pews. The girls haven’t seen reality from the shelter that camp offers. They don’t know what it was like to have to shoot and kill Francis or to feel like everything was held precariously in one moment. 

Karen was too eager to try and destroy what she could. She took glee in taking things apart, to be in control of the misfortune for once. The fact that she always looked up to you as though you were an idol for killing Francis in cold blood disturbed you more than you’d like to admit. But you know it’s her naivety, her lack of knowing what it was like to sink a lead bullet into someone and know it was the end to everything. For Karen, she wanted the world to listen for once. To feel like she had a choice in some way instead of being at the mercy of fate or others. She wanted that control, that autonomy for herself. A life that was all her own. 

As for Mary-Beth, it was whimsical to her. A concept like a mirage, shrouded amongst the confines of her imagination and as tangible as grains of sand slipping past her fingers. She dreamt of glory and something more, a life that could be worth living if only it were different. It was a story, but not a reality. And you pitied how she seemed to see the world through rose-colored eyes, as though everything could be something more if it just _tried._ Smoke and mirrors, hyperboles and metaphors. Through words, she danced between what she lived in her head, and what she lived outside of it, and her problem was trying to keep them as separate as they were meant to be from the start. For her, she wanted life to become something she would never have to wake from. 

And Tilly. She was one who wanted more. Something better, something new, something worth fighting for. You can tell, just from what she has said, that she has spent most of her life running and wishing for a day in which she wasn’t running from a past that was still chasing her. Her pursuit of happiness, her desire for being able to settle and feel confidence instead of fear. You heard her speak of becoming a woman of money and prowess, and how you wished for that to be her future. For her coming days were seen with tunnel vision, with only one goal and too narrow of scope to permit anything other than complete adherence and success to her plan. To be able to live her life without the shadow of her former casting over it. 

And what about you? 

Your father was gone, lost to sickness and the ill-fated hand of the wrong man to trust, and here you are. 

On the run with a gang of outlaws, for what? Fifty dollars, was it? 

But you had that money. You could pay it back. 

And maybe you couldn’t go back to Blackwater now, not with Francis six feet under with the bullet from your gun resting within him like the final nail to the coffin itself. But that didn’t mean you didn’t have options. That didn’t mean you were entirely done for as he was. 

So, what was keeping you here? What, at the point where your own daydream was over, were you going to do? 

As you ride up into Valentine, your eyes landing on a familiar man who smokes against the side of the stable, you decide that a better time for such thoughts were for when the situation permitted them. 

You slow D’or down, and the Walker behind you does the same, seeing Arthur and bobbing its head in recognition as it neighs. 

Hearing his horse, the outlaw looks up, noticing you as he pulls his cigarette from his mouth to blow smoke past the smirk on his lips. 

He’s covered in mud, obviously dirty from whatever it is that he had done with the man. It makes your stomach unsettle some, but you watch as the Walker approaches Arthur, touching his head to Arthur’s outstretched palm as the man looks to you. 

“Took you long enough,” he jokes, and you lightly roll your eyes. 

“How did it go with that man?” you ask as Arthur regards you from under the brim of his hat. 

“Went about as well as intimidatin’ and threatenin’ their life goes,” he tells you, adding, “Don’t worry, Jimmy Brooks ain’t plannin’ on talkin’ any time soon. And he don’t plan on writin’ neither,” the man pulls a fancy fountain pen from his coat and grins, “He gave me a gift for the trouble.” 

Despite your initial nerves, you laugh, shaking your head as you lower yourself from D’or. The mare notices Arthur then, rumbling at him and also demanding attention. 

The man chuckles as he looks back to you, growing serious. 

“So, that bounty of yours...” 

Your throat tightens a little, and you nod, pulling the poster from your pocket before handing it over to the outlaw across from you. He takes it, unfolding it and looking at the paper as you speak. 

“He’s wanted alive,” you begin, watching as Arthur squints to read Benedict’s charges, “I figure we can start at the end of the Dakota River here by Cumberland forest, track our way down from there. The sheriff said people heard of him camping in that area by town, so it ain’t a huge distance to cover. Should be quick and easy, like I said.” 

Arthur nods, passing the poster back to you to rub at his muddied chin, the dried dirt there flaking off as he scratches it away, “What supplies do you have on you?” 

Your brows furrow in confusion, and you tilt your head at the man, “What?” 

“What supplies do ya got?” he repeats, gesturing to you and then looking over to D’or, “Or in your saddle?” 

“First rule about bounty huntin’ is that you can never assume it’s just gonna be quick and easy,” he explains, and you frown then at this apparent lesson you didn’t know was going to start, “There have been times I’ve gone in thinkin’ I was gonna lasso a bastard and walk right back into town, and then I’d spend three days chasin’ ‘em down. So you gotta have supplies. Things like a campsite kit, different types of clothes, food, medicine, ammo. You always prepare for anythin’ you go out to do, or it can cost ya more than just money.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I get that,” you huff, “But where am I to get all that at such a short notice?” 

“Right behind you.” 

Glancing over your shoulder, you see the general store and grimace, “They have all that there?” 

“This is a livestock town, a good size one for a lotta miles. You’d be surprised at how many people pass through here while traveling,” he murmurs, and he grabs onto the reins of his Walker, “Come on, we’ll lead them over to the hitch and go inside.” 

Doing the same with D’or, you both walk side by side, braced in by your horses as you head to the store. You eye it warily, unsure of how to go about all this. 

“Now, I can pay for some of your stuff—” 

“Arthur, you don’t have to—” 

“No no, hear me out,” he explains, using his free hand to gesture, “You ain't got enough money for all this, but if you wanna run around as you are, you gotta have these things. And I told you, I ain’t gonna stop ya from huntin’ this guy if he really is who he says he is. Well, I say that, but I know I can’t stop you,” he hums, and you narrow your gaze on him then, “I just wanna make sure that if things go wrong, it ain’t gonna be because you don’t have somethin’ you need.” 

“First Strauss, and now you,” you mutter as you both reach the hitching post, and you tie D’or’s reins there. 

“Hey, I ain’t nothin’ like Strauss. I don’t expect you to pay me back. Just, owe me a favor is all if that’s how you wanna go about it. But I won’t hold that money over your head.” 

Backing down some as you both come up onto the store’s porch, you murmur, “Thank you...” 

He only nods in acknowledgment to your words as he goes to the store’s door and pushes it back, “Okay, so we’ll go through the catalog together, and I’ll show you what you need. As for the clothes, well, there’s a bit of personal taste there.” 

“Hosea already bought me clothes,” you point out as you walk inside, your eyes drifting to the shelves of goods, ranging from Guarma rums to canned apricots and hair tonics. 

“Well, he bought you enough to get you till now, and you don’t even have a coat for the ones that take off into the mountains. Hell, it’s cold enough here to warrant one. And you’ve been wearin’ your old boots since Blackwater since they got ruined.” 

Sighing, you relent, “Fair enough...” 

Arthur moves up to the shopkeeper then, and he stands behind a counter, grinning at you both and greeting you. 

“Oh, nice to see you again, sir! How can I help you two today?” he asks. 

“We’re gonna be buyin’ a few things off ya,” Arthur says, “Can we see the catalog?” 

“Sure can!” 

The shopkeeper ducks, going to a shelf under his counter to remove a large red and white book. Its ornate cover has you narrowing your eyes before Arthur opens it, flipping over to a certain section and finding what he’s looking for. 

The shopkeeper places a piece of paper down alongside a pencil, and he smiles as Arthur takes them. 

“Write whatever you need on that sheet there, and we’ll gather it up for you.” 

“We’re also buyin’ clothes,” he states. 

The shopkeeper beams then, “Why of course! Let me grab what I have out for you to see!” 

Arthur scribbles down his requests on the paper as you watch, your curiosity piqued as he finishes his small list and moves over to the clothing section. 

“Now, I recommend you get a satchel as I’ve got. I put just about everythin’ in there, and it helps for carryin’ things on you instead of your horse where you most likely won’t even be able to get to them when ya need ‘em most.” 

You nod, looking at the only one listed and watching as Arthur scribbles down the number it is under in the catalog before he flips a page and starts to show the women’s clothing. Most are dresses, frilly, suffocating things pictured in the drawings that he passes right on by until he gets to the smaller part of the section. There, it has a few basic looking shirts and pants for sale, and you frown at the limited quantity as Arthur moves the catalog towards you. 

“Pick what you want. Colors n’ whatnot are all on you, but just make sure what you get is comfortable and durable. There’s no need for flashiness or extravagance when it’ll all just hold you back.” 

You look on the pages, taking in the drawings of the women modeling the clothing and wondering how it would look on you. You take your lower lip between your teeth, and you begin to list out what you think you’d like. 

Once you’re done, you choose one of the scout jackets in black, a couple of new shirts, some pants, and two pairs of boots, Arthur nods, satisfied as he flips over to the men’s section. 

“You’re gettin' clothes too?” you ask. 

“I ain’t bought anythin’ new in a while, and it shows, I’m afraid,” he admits, and you take in the sight of his brown leather jacket and the creases in it, alongside his jeans that are all tore up from his knees and thighs, “Figure this is a better time than any to try and get some things a bit nicer.” 

He actually lists quite a few items, mostly shirts and even some new boots for himself as well as he finally flips to the last section he intends to browse, with that being the ammo listings. 

“You fancy that carbine of yours a lot?” he asks. 

“Yeah, guess so... I don’t really like the Cattleman,” you admit. 

Arthur hums, flipping till he sees the number for the ammo it needs and jotting it down, “It’s a good gun. Reliable shot, good capacity. Say, after we do this, we should hit the gunsmith, get it fixed up with the money you take it.” 

“Maybe,” you concede, “Not sure if I want to spend the money on makin’ it nicer if I only intend to use it when it’s necessary.” 

The outlaw shrugs, finally pushing the paper over as he finds himself satisfied with the list, “Well, at the very least, we’ll clean it tonight. I know I showed you how to use gun oil and take care of this gun before, but I’m gonna make sure you know it by heart once we’re through here.” 

Sighing, you make no point to refute the prospect, and instead begin to wait for everything else to fall into place. 

“Just make sure to put a lasso on there.” 

“How come?” 

Raising a brow at Arthur, you ask, “How am I gonna bring him in alive, otherwise?” 

Chuckling, Arthur writes down its number, “Fair point.” 

Huffing, you let him finish his list, and go to browse about the shop as you wait. 

Eventually, the shopkeeper comes back, setting his clothes down and grabbing out what was listed for the both of you and piling it up. 

He goes to get the rest, making a decent pile on the counter for you as Arthur reaches into his satchel and grabs his clip of money. You swallow as the shopkeeper finally announces the total, a sum that you have never been able to pay for otherwise as Arthur licks his tongue and counts out the proper amount of bills. 

Thanking the shopkeeper once he is given his change, you both head back to the horses, using some of the canvas bags given to you by the shopkeeper to tie most of your goods onto the side of your horses. 

“That was a lot,” you breathe out as you saddle up, “I’m gonna owe you a damn big favor.” 

“Trust me, I’m sure we’ll find a way to use it,” Arthur chuckles. 

Rolling your eyes lightly, you both head down the street, turning near the sheriff’s office to start heading down the section of the Dakota River you have narrowed down. Arthur rides almost adjacent at your side, only pulling a little further back for you take somewhat of a lead as you begin to leave Valentine to begin your hunt. 

“Say, if this Benedict man, coincidence aside, isn’t the man who sold that doctor that recipe, what are you gonna do?” 

“I’m positive it’s him. But on the smallest off-chance, it’s not, then I'm still gonna take him in,” you say, “If it isn’t the bastard who gave Francis the tonic that killed my father, then he’s surely the one who’s given it to others. I wouldn’t let that man walk if this has nothin’ to do with my father.” 

“But it does,” Arthur hums. 

“So it seems.” 

“And gettin' him, what exactly is it gonna do for you?” he questions as the trail thins, and he somewhat pulls behind you on his Walker. 

Sighing, you grip onto D’or’s reins a little tighter, “I know you think revenge is a luxury. But this... It ain’t exactly revenge.” 

“I know it isn’t. If it were, you would outright kill the man. And, you wouldn’t have asked me to get the lasso,” he explains, “You probably wouldn’t have even told me. You just would’ve gone on your own to get him, as you told me you would with Francis.” 

Softly, you hiss as you look out onto the road, “That was _different_.” 

“I know it was. I told you, I don’t exactly blame ya for bein’ the way that you are about it, despite everythin’ that happened... But this man, Benedict, I know you’re not out for blood with him. At least, not outright. This ain’t revenge for you. It’s justice.” 

You swallow thickly, nodding, “I know that... if not for my dad, the other people like him, ya know? They deserve that as much as he does.” 

Arthur doesn’t say anything else, and he allows you the quiet you need to let the tears that manage to fall be shed in silence. 

It doesn’t take you both long, beginning at the top of the river before it heads into the Cumberland Forest, for you to start heading down the stretch of its banks in an attempt to find Benedict. Arthur rides faithfully at your side, allowing you to take control and begin to search for the man. 

It’s a lot like hunting overall, except the animal has been replaced with a man far more troublesome than a coyote, or shifty than a rattlesnake. It doesn’t take you long, following both the fresh tracks leading up a narrow path at the riverside and trailing the wind with the scent of smoke following in its wake for you to find the man. 

“Come on, hop off on foot here, we’ll do the rest that way,” Arthur instructs. 

Dismounting from D’or, you approach, ignoring the way the old man’s Morgan shifts as you approach. The sun begins to set, causing his fire to light up the rock side from where he’s set up camp. He’s none the wiser as you both sneak up from behind, humming a tune to himself as he boils a pot over the fire, with dark blue bottles and a pile of cloth are littered all around him. 

You’re up high, probably about forty or so feet in the air from where the river churns below, so you know you need to be careful with how steep and narrow everything is here. 

You go to pull your lasso, but Arthur stops you. 

“Benedict Allbright?” 

The man turns, pushing his small spectacles up the bridge of his nose as he eyes you both wildly. 

“W-Who’s asking?” 

“We are,” Arthur takes a step forward, and with it, Benedict takes a step back, getting closer to the edge, causing Arthur to stall, “We heard you have a miracle tonic?” 

Benedict regards you both, still suspicious as he darts his eyes between the two of you as he adjusts his top hat, “That I do... Why do you ask?” 

“See, my mother,” he starts, and you’re shocked at how he is able to play his upset to the man like a hand of cards at the poker table, “She’s real sick. I was lookin’ to buy it, try and see if it helps her.” 

At Arthur’s words, Benedict brightens like a charm, flicking his finger up and grinning, “Ah! Then you're in luck, my friend! I was just brewing a fresh batch when you came upon me!” 

Benedict goes to grab his freshest stock when Arthur sends you a quick look. You make a face at him, wondering why Arthur is playing this up as he is. 

Arthur ignores you, bringing back that expression of distraught hope as Benedict turns back to face him, bringing one of his newly corked bottles and coming up to him with it. 

“This here, it puts hair on a man’s chest, a charm in a woman’s body!” he jeers as Arthur takes the bottle to look it over, “It’s the best in all of the Heartlands, guaranteed!” 

“Will it help my mother?” Arthur asks, looking to the man then 

“Why, oh yes, it will help her! It will get her back on her feet and then running, by god!” 

Humming, Arthur considers the bottle. He takes his time, and then begins to walk slowly over to you, his eyes still trained on the dark blue glass that is held precariously between his calloused fingers. 

“Say, Wolf, this seem familiar?” 

“Bottle is the same,” you say dryly, and you notice how Benedict’s aura of confidence seems to falter at your discussion. 

Arthur shifts his gaze, looking to the pile of cloth you noticed earlier, “Say, what’s in there?” 

“Oh, just a type of sage,” Benedict proclaims, “All medicinal, I can assure you!” 

Ignoring him, Arthur steps towards it, causing Benedict to shift more so your direction as Arthur uses his boot to nudge the stained fabric aside, revealing those damning dark green leaves with those familiar pink flowers blossomed from its stems. Your heart races further, and the anger you felt rises within you like a beast prodded within its cage. 

If there was any doubts as to who Benedict was, they were for damn sure cleared now. 

“Looks like Oleander to me,” Arthur tsks, licking at his teeth with a click as he turns back to Benedict, his hand holding the bottle of tonic between his fingers as Benedict visibly sweats, “Sure that’s what you use in somethin’ _medicinal?”_

In a moment’s notice, Benedict blurs, and Arthur goes to unholster his Cattleman just as Benedict does with his. Whereas Arthur’s is aimed at Benedict, Benedict’s is aimed at you, and the barrel presses against your temple, the metal as cold as ice as he slinks against you. 

“One step more and she’s dead!” he hisses. 

“Benedict,” Arthur growls, his voice low and heavy, “You best be careful. They may want you alive, but I sure as hell ain’t protestin’ to the aspect of bringin’ them your cold, dead body!” 

You feel Benedict shift uneasily at your back, and you swallow, trying to stay as still as possible as the man shifts you around, with Arthur following in toe. They’re parallel, moving in time with one another until Arthur’s back is completely facing the wall of rock behind him. 

“I was helping people!” he shouts, “The spirits! They told me, oleander sage! It can cleanse them of sickness! Make them better!” he shakes against you, and you try to hold back the fearful noises that want to escape as he readjusts his hands on your throat, “You and all those other bastards out there, you doubt my work! Cast me aside like I’m nothing more than a lunatic!” 

“Put the gun down,” Arthur snarls, his lip pulling back like a wolf’s as he clicks his revolver over, “You have till the count of three.” 

You grip at Benedict’s arm, your nails all but digging into his flesh as Benedict quiets behind you, even his frantic breathing slowing as he seems to process what he is to do. 

“One!” 

He shifts some, and you feel the gun somewhat twitch against your temple, almost hesitating. 

“Two!” 

Arthur takes another step forward, and Benedict takes one more back. 

“ _Wolf!”_

You feel a sudden rush of air, and the pull of gravity as the ground below you is no longer at your feet. 

_“A-Arthur!”_

The fall is as terrifying as it is quick, but it’s the crash into the water below that truly is the worst of it all. The impact is like running into bricks, just as abrasive and unrelenting. For a few moments, you are spun about the turmoil of the water before you come back to your senses, and when you are finally able, your head breaks above the white caps as you scream again. 

“ _Arthur!”_

“Wolf, hold on, I’m comin’!” Arthur shouts, and as you try to stay above the rushing water, you watch as the man grabs ahold of Benedict’s horse, and begins to ride down the path without hesitation. 

A few feet from you and a little further up the flow is Benedict, sputtering and now without his glasses and top hat. He struggles to stay afloat, and you curse as you do the same. 

The water is ice cold, and your lungs feel like they are being squeezed as you pant past your lips, your arms quickly growing tired as you try to force yourself to stay above the water. 

“Y-You stupid brute and wench!” Benedict gasps, flapping his arms and straining further as his waterlogged suit weighs him down, “You should’ve just let me be!” 

Before he can do much else, a branch from a tree lodged in the river knocks him on the backside of the head, and he falls unconscious into the water. Thankfully, his head is facing towards the sky, and you let out a breath. 

“Wolf!” 

Your head snaps to where Arthur rides beside the river, his spurs digging into the poor Morgan’s side as he readies the lasso he had bought from the store. 

“I’m gonna throw this, catch it!” 

“Hold on!” 

You hear Arthur’s sputtering over the rush of the water as you swim forward, carried easily with the current. 

“What are you doin’!?” Arthur shouts, “There’s a drop comin’ up this way!” 

Your eyes see it, where the edge of the water dips and the river continues below, and your breath catches. But you know you have a chance, and you’re willing to take it as you snatch onto Benedict’s collar. 

“Throw it!” 

Arthur quickly tosses the end of the lasso, and it lands with a splash in the water beside you. You grab it before it’s swirled away in the torrent, and you make sure you grip on both it and the sputter old man are firm as you look to Arthur. You feel your legs dangle over the drop, and you realize then just how close you were cutting it. 

“Pull!” 

You feel the moment that Arthur stops the horse to pull you both in, the force of the water running up against you both and crashing against your face. You have to look away, lest your mouth be full of water, and you close your eyes as your hands clench on both the rope and Benedict’s jacket. 

“I got you!” Arthur yells, yanking as much rope as quick as he can, his eyes wide as he even makes the Morgan back up. 

It feels like years before the water seems to recede, and you feel the solidness that is the ground below. You let out a small cry of relief as Arthur leaps down from the Morgan, rushing to your side as you lay Benedict out to sprawl on the bank as the outlaw skids onto his knees in front of you. 

You’re shivering, your teeth clattering together as your hair drips and your clothes cling to you, and the feeling of Arthur’s hot hands on your face is enough to have your eyes widen and focus on him as he worries. 

“Jesus, Wolf,” he breathes roughly, looking you over and taking in your soaked state, “You ain’t hurt, are you?” 

“T-Told you we needed the l-l-lasso,” you chatter, and Arthur huffs. 

Quickly, he works his jacket off of himself, wrapping it around you and rubbing his arms along the sleeves to try and offer up even the slightest bit more warmth. 

“You feel like ice,” he whispers, and you shake as the wind picks up, only making matters worse, “Shit.” 

Looking to Benedict, Arthur exhales sharply through his nose before grabbing the rope. 

“Hold on, I’m gonna get you set right,” he promises, quickly hogtying Benedict’s unconscious frame and placing it onto the back of his own horse. 

He whistles, the sound shrill and echoing off the trench the river dug through the hills, and you can hear the answering whinny from D’or a few moments later. 

“God,” Arthur drops back down to you then as you tremble, “I about lost you...” 

“B-but you didn’t,” you huff, your hands gripping onto the lapels of his worn jacket. 

Arthur doesn’t say anything to that, but instead looks over to where D’or and his Walker trot down the path, and he once again moves away. You can do nothing but watch as Arthur immediately goes into the bags you had gotten from the general store, and he pulls out both the camping kit and some of the new clothes that you had gotten as well. He rushes back over, bringing them to you and looking away pointedly. 

“You need to change,” he informs you, voice carefully even as he steps away, going to start by setting up where the fire if to be as you watch him collect a few branches to begin his pile, “If you stay in those any longer, I’m sure you’re gonna freeze even worse than you are.” 

“R-Right here?” you whimper. 

“Yes, right here,” he doesn’t sound impatient or pushy but rather sincere and understanding of your hesitancy, “I promise I won’t look. And if anyone comes along the way, I won’t hesitate to put a bullet in ‘em.” 

By the way his voice darkens at that last bit, you know he isn’t in the mood to not make a fallacy out of that promise. 

“O-Okay...” 

With unease, you stand, your eyes trained on Arthur’s back as you shed his jacket and toe your boots off. You can see from the way his suspenders bunch on his shoulders that he’s tense, and you try not to focus on why exactly that is as you hurry to get this over with. 

Your skin pricks with goosebumps as you work your jeans off first, the fabric all but peeling off of you as Arthur grabs a nearby fallen branch, and with the help of his hunting knife, he cuts the thicker parts before breaking it down. Despite it being for some purpose, you can tell he’s trying to distract himself, especially with the way he makes sure his head does not turn a fraction in your direction with an intense amount of effort. 

He practically flinches as the sound of your wet jeans hitting the ground as you slip them off your legs, and your breath rushes out of your lungs as you hesitate on your shirt. 

Your eyes don’t leave Arthur, your heart beating almost between your ears with the way its erratic thumping is so evident to you. Your lips part, your tongue slipping past for a moment as you finish undoing the last button, and you slip the sodden cloth off of yourself. 

Standing in nothing but your soaked chemise, you shudder another breath, feeling the cold wind whip at your skin while you begin to undo the ties at the back. But your hands shake, and you can’t get the knots undone as you shiver. 

You hear Arthur flick a match, and you suck in a deep breath, your numb fingers failing as you watch him start to breathe life into the flames. 

After a few moments of struggling, of the damned silk for not coming undone, you swallow as you realize what is to happen. 

“I—” your voice sounds so small and sheepish to your own ears, and you watch as Arthur straightens slowly, “Arthur, I—” 

“You need help?” he asks cautiously, as though he fears his presumption to be out of place. 

“Y-Yes,” you squeak, your cheeks burning hotter than that of the sun as it turns red, and begins to sink below the horizon, “Please...” 

You watch from under your lashes as Arthur stands up from where he has got the fire started, and he turns. 

The moment his eyes land onto you, it’s like the world freezes. 

Your heart races as you see his hands move just as his eyes do, taking in the state of your soaked chemise, at the way the thin material cling to your skin, hiding nothing to the imagination. He sucks in a sharp breath, coming forward. Each step has your heart thundering away, each crinkle of grass under his boots reaching your ears as though it were the sound of the way your nerves spark as he approaches. 

The glow of the setting sun sets his skin alight like never before, the planes and contour of his face evident with the shadows that are cast across it. Electric are his pupils, almost glowing with the way the orange of the fading sunlight stands against it as he nears, his soft hair being carried by the breeze. 

Like gravity, you fall into one another's orbit, and Arthur shifts, rounding about your side till he comes to your back. You shiver, but not from the cold, especially as you feel his breath along the nape of your neck. You feel the heat of his body behind yours, and before you can stop yourself, you move backward, almost pressing up against him as you tremble softly. 

“Steady there,” he purrs. 

His fingers move to yours, warm and unrushed as he moves yours out of the way with a gentleness you didn’t expect. 

You look past the fire and into the expanse of the trees, your wet hair causing rivulets of water to run down your back like fingertips tracing the slope of your spine as Arthur works at the ribbons holding your chemise together. 

Slowly he works, taking apart the carefully tied knots with such ease as you shake softly against him, his broad chest almost pressing against your back as he works down the intricate lacing. 

You feel your chemise grow looser and looser with each passing tug and pull, and soon, you have to move your hands to your chest to hold it up against yourself. 

“There...” 

Arthur’s voice sounds as though he had been gargling gravel, his drawl thick and heavy as he breathes, it feeling as though it were almost right against the back of your neck. 

He steps back, and you happen to turn your head to look at him then. 

But Arthur passes like the moment, his eyes sharing only a second with your own before he goes back over to the fire. 

You nearly shake on your feet as he kneels back down, his back facing you again as the sun finally drops down below the mountain tops, casting the world in a disarray of purples and blues as twilight begins to set in. 

And then, your chemise falls to the ground. 

The way Arthur stills is obvious, as though he is afraid to even breathe as you stand there for a moment, gathering up the state of the present. 

You’re bare, completely unclothed for anyone to see. The curves of your body are mainly lit up by the soft glow of firelight, and you feel your mouth dry at the way your body seems to heat in a way all its own as you watch Arthur shift on his feet. 

Leaning down, you grab onto your new shirt first. It’s a bit large, and it’s then that you realize that Arthur accidentally grabbed one of his own from the bag. 

It’s a dark drown every day dress shirt, and you’re grateful that there are not many buttons on it as you move it closer to your person. But, it means one thing. 

You have to work it over your head. 

Swallowing, you lift the shirt over your arms, working the fabric over the top of your head and losing sight of Arthur and the world around him as you are enveloped in the dark fabric. You can only see a little, but your heart thrums at the loss as you are quick to try and finish getting it over your head. 

Just as you are finished pulling the rest of your shirt down, there is a noise at your side. 

Yelping lightly, Arthur spins within an instant, gun at the ready as he looks around you for the source. 

Then, a rabbit scurries out of the water, frightened from where it had jumped out of the underbrush to come face to face with the barrel of the outlaw’s cattleman. 

But neither of you are looking at the rabbit. 

Arthur’s green eyes do not leave this time, and his lips part softly, awe written plain on his face. You are sure you look burnt by the sun at this point with how red you must be, and you bite your lower lip and hold it between your teeth sheepishly as you look down towards your feet. 

“I—”Arthur pauses, and you watch as he forces himself to turn back around, “I gave you my shirt...” 

“Yes...” 

The air grows awkward then, the residual tension from whatever those moments had been shifting much like the water of the river behind you as you rush to dress the rest of the way with haste. 

Now, with the sun gone, whatever warmth had been in the air has departed with it, and you curse as your teeth begin to chatter again. 

“Are... Are you decent?” 

“Y-Yes...” 

Arthur peeks then, like he isn’t sure, and when he notices you, now clad entirely in his oversized shirt and your pants, he lets out a small curse under his breath before heading back over to the horses. 

“Get by the fire, you gotta warm up,” he says, words strained. 

You do as told, settling down on the ground and shivering. A few seconds later, one of your new sets of boots is set down on the ground beside you, and you are surprised as you feel something heavy drape over your arms. Looking, you come to find it’s your scout jacket, and when you look over your shoulder, you see Arthur taking a step back. 

“I’ll grab the blanket for ya too, in case you’re too cold,” he mutters, his eyes not able to meet yours, “And while you get warm, I’ll set up the tents.” 

“W-What about Benedict?” 

“He’ll live,” Arthur grunts, and he steps aside, “Just try and get warm, and I’ll take care of the rest.” 

The outlaw works diligently around you as you shiver against yourself. 

He was right to get you the blanket, as you wrap it around yourself, teeth occasionally clacking together as you begin to get feeling back in your toes and fingers as you shuffle closer to the fire. 

You keep your mind off of what happened, lest you only want to make this harder on yourself. You can tell that Arthur feels the same way, remaining awkward as he sets up the two of your tents from your kits, with D’or and his Walker grazing on the grass nearby. It’s like the air is stilted between you both, and you try to not focus on it, and instead do as Arthur told, and only work on getting your body heated up. 

But by the time Arthur finishes and has your dripping clothes sitting on a nearby tree to dry, you’re still no better, and he curses as he watches how you breathe hot air down into the blanket to try and add more heat for yourself. 

“Jesus, Wolf,” he mutters, “Just—” 

You’re about to ask what he’s doing as he pulls the blanket away. 

“H-Hey!” 

“Hold on before ya snip,” he says lightly, and before you can rebuttal, he sits down directly behind you. 

Much like before, while he was working the binds of your chemise, he settles at your back. But this time, he does not hold that space between you both. Instead, he comes up directly against your back, the heat of his body still stark even with the scout jacket wrapping around your form. 

Your breath catches in your throat as he braces his legs against yours, perfectly framing you as he wraps an arm around your middle and pulls you close, while the other wraps the blanket around you both. 

You’re not sure what to make of any of it, your brain blanking and your tongue effectively stilled as Arthur settles against you with a small breath. 

“You know, you feel like you’re stone with how tense you are,” he tells you, “Just try and relax, it’ll help you get warmer if you lean against me.” 

Cautiously, you comply, leaning back until you are fully against his back, your muscles finally relaxing and losing their tension. 

You look to the jagged tops of the steep hills and the trees that blanket them. The view is gorgeous, with the embers dancing up into the air until the burn out amongst the twinkling stars sprinkled across the dark blue night sky. 

But none of it compares to way Arthur holds onto you. 

“Feelin’ better?” he says low into your ear, so quiet, only for you to hear. 

You’re only able to nod, your head resting against his shoulder as you feel the heaviness of fatigue in your muscles. It’s like he’s gone and melted you, with the way your body now presses without shame against his own, his thick forearm bracing your middle and holding you close as you feel your eyelids start to droop. 

You fight against it, not wanting the moment to end. 

“S’okay,” he tells you softly, using his free hand to rub up and down your arm slowly, “I told ya, I got you now.” 

You hum, finding sleep coming to take you quickly now that your chill finally abates with Arthur’s heat enveloping you. The outlaw remains steady at your back, even as he sets his chin on top of your head and begins to hum a slight tune as your eyelids flutter closed. 

And you fall asleep like that in his arms, your clothes being the only thing that now shudders in the wind.

**\---**

You jerk awake, finding yourself not under a canopy of stars, but rather rustling canvas as you open your eyes.

Sitting up, you run a hand through your tangled hair as memories of last night come through in bits and pieces until you can recall every moment that happened, and you all but shut down when you realize just how it all was. 

Looking through the small slits of your tent, you see Benedict, now awake and muffled by the cloth in his mouth. 

Curiously, you poke your head out, finding Arthur leaning against the small tree across from where Benedict thrashes on the ground, his eyes lingering on the man as he sharpens the edge of his hunting knife. 

“Ah, mornin’ Wolf,” he greets, but he doesn’t look over to you, rather, he keeps his focus on the old man that struggles on the ground, kicking up dirt and surely cursing into the fabric that fills his mouth, “How ya feelin’?” 

“Better than him.” 

Arthur chuckles, and he grinds the edge of his knife a little harder than he should around his chosen stone, “Say, Benedict. I know you can’t talk much, thank god, but I want you to answer us by shaking your head, yes or no.” 

Benedict’s eyes widen, and he looks between you both. Arthur a moment without his expected response, Arthur raises a brow as he drags his knife back over the stone. 

“Well, I’m waitin’.” 

Benedict cries against his gag, but nods, nodding his head vigorously. 

“Good! Now that we’s on speakin’ terms, I want you to answer me, and do so honestly,” Arthur glances at Benedict, “We know you, Mr. Allbright. Lot of folk do, but we actually think we know you a lil’ better than the rest. Say, enough to have a bit of a vendetta against you.” 

Benedict’s expression is nothing but pure terror then, and he shakes his head. 

“Ah now, Benedict, I ain’t even asked a question!” Arthur jests dangerously, eagling his arms and regarding the man with an ominous smirk, “But see, here’s the thing... We had a bit of a run in with a man by the name of Francis Cole. He’s a shit doctor from Blackwater. Well, _was_ a shit doctor from Blackwater,” Arthur corrects, and he stops leaning against the tree, taking a step towards the man then, “You see, he wrote about you. Well, we’re rather sure. Not many men are runnin’ around sellin’ poison as medicine using Oleander Sage as you are. After all, it’s why Dr. Cole purchased the recipe from you, isn’t that right?” 

The man trembles, almost too scared to answer when Arthur tilts his head at him. 

“Right, Mr. Allbright?” 

Benedict nods profusely, doing what you’re sure is begging behind his gag as his eyes redden and tears well up at the way Arthur grinds at him till he’s nothing more than petrified pulp on the river bank. 

“Great, see, that’s what we thought! So, you’re the bastard who gave Dr. Cole this tonic’s recipe, and let him run with it,” Arthur takes a few more steps forward, and Benedict screams against his gag in protest as he eyes the glinting edge of Arthur’s knife, “’Cause you see, we had a run in with Dr. Cole. Well, more so of my partner here,” Arthur gestures to you with the knife then, and he throws the stone in the water with more force than necessary, “You see, she went to him when she needed that tonic the most. And unlike me playin’ with you, she needed it for her father. And you wanna know what happened to him?” 

Arthur leans down, whispering then. 

“He died, Benedict. It killed him. So she killed the son of a bitch who gave it to her, and now, she insisted we come get you for givin’ Dr. Cole that poisonous tonic of yours.” 

Benedict shakes his head, tears running down his cheeks until they absorb into his gag when Arthur reaches into his satchel and tosses Cole’s journal onto the ground. 

“This here _says_ it’s yours, and I ain’t got no reason to believe otherwise with what I’ve found and know, so don’t you _dare_ lie to me!” he roars, “Oleander Sage, goddamn horse reviver? What in the hell were you thinkin’ you could accomplish you god damn lunatic?” 

Curling on himself, Benedict sobs into the gag, and Arthur tsks, pocketing his knife and grabbing Cole’s journal. 

“You’re lucky they want you alive. Because if I had a say, I’d give you a taste of you own medicine,” Arthur growls. 

The old man is beyond reason, nothing but a mess of tears and unintelligible noises as he is lifted from the ground and lugged over Arthur’s shoulder. 

“Come on, get that tent tore down. We got a bounty to turn in.” 

Arthur sets Benedict on the back of your horse as you take apart you tent, fixing the canvas and rolling up your bed roll to put back on D’or as Arthur takes care of the fire and the rest of the camp he had set up. Once Benedict is on the back D’or, he goes over to the old man’s Morgan, quickly empty its saddle bags and tossing the worn saddle onto the ground before smacking his hand on the horse’s flank. 

“Go on, get!” he yells after it as it runs off. 

Once the Morgan is out of sight, Arthur sets in, helping you finish up the rest. 

The two of you work well, managing to dismantle your makeshift site with ease, and shortly after getting started, you both saddle up onto your horses for the ride back to Valentine. 

On the back of the champagne Fox Trotter, Benedict sobs, wriggling and rubbing his wrists raw from the rope that binds him as you and Arthur head back together. The man is rolling with rage in a way you’ve never seen, almost as though your roles had been switched, and he was the one wronged by this man, even if indirect. 

But a part of you doesn’t feel remorse or pity for Benedict, even as he attempts to beg against the cloth in his mouth to be set free. A man like him deserves nothing more than a cell or a noose, you know, and there is something gratifying as you ride back into town to ensure both are to be given to him accordingly. 

Hitching your horses at the post right at the sheriff’s office, you hear a whistle and the sound of boots as someone comes across the wooden porch at its front. 

“Looks like you made quick work of him.” 

You glance over to where the sheriff eyes you both with mirth as Arthur dismounts and grabs Benedict off of the back of your horse. 

“We would’ve made it back sooner, but the bastard jumped into the river,” Arthur huffs, and the sheriff laughs as he watches Arthur carry the man past him. 

“’Course he did! At least you didn’t let him drown to spare him from hangin’!” Benedict protests even further as Arthur enters the office, “Take him to one of the empty cells, if you can.” 

Arthur does as instructed while the sheriff motions you to follow. You do, and he comes upon his desk, opening the drawer and pulling a small money clip out to set it onto the desk. 

“There you go, forty dollars cash for him,” the sheriff tilts his head as you take the clip, and he hums, “Say, you interested in somethin’ a little more interestin’ than bounties to hunt?” 

Stopping beside you, Arthur places his hands onto his gun belt, “What’s that?” 

“It’s down the way, Keane’s Saloon,” he starts, going to sit at his desk and propping his feet onto it once he’s settling in his chair, “There’s a man there with a drunk. Say’s he’s the famous gunslinger Jim Calloway, just washed up in liquor. Says he’s tryna write a book about him and a few others, he’s willin’ to pay if you’re willin’ to help.”

“Huh, well, thanks for the tip,” Arthur murmurs. 

“Thanks for catchin’ the son of a bitch,” the sheriff tips his hat to you both, “Y’all be safe now.” 

You and Arthur bid the sheriff goodbye, heading out of his office as you look down the road. You see the sign and glance over to Arthur. 

“Wanna check it out?” 

“What can it hurt?” he shrugs as you both begin walking, “If there ain’t no one to find there, there’s at least drinks.” 

Arthur goes to take a step off of the porch, but the light grip you gain on his forearm stops him. 

“Arthur... wait.” 

The outlaw stops, looking to you and his brow pinching. 

“What is it?” 

You duck your head, eyeing your new brown boots and murmuring, “I just wanted to thank you... For all of that...” 

Arthur snorts lightly, but it’s not mocking you any. Instead, the outlaw grabs a cigarette and matches from his satchel and goes to light it, perching it against his lips as he strikes the match against the side of his boot. The flames eat away at the end of the cigarette, burning away at its paper and the tobacco inside as he inhales. 

Then pulling it away, he purses his lips, blowing the smoke away from you as his breath turns into a chuckle. 

“Told ya, never assume it’s gonna be quick and easy...” 

“Yeah, it could’ve been if we just went and nabbed him when we first saw him.” 

“Well, I wanted to be sure, just in case,” Arthur mutters, kicking a chunk of dried mud off of the edge of the porch you’re both on with his burning cigarette pinched between his fingers, “Didn’t know he was gonna take you on a leap of faith with him...” 

You nod, looking out onto the muddy streets of Valentine as a wagon passes by, and townsfolk muddle about and pass by one another, all focused on the everyday worries of work or dinner. It all seems so trivial now, how your old life was in Blackwater. It’s strange to have something you’ve lived with during your whole life feel so foreign, but yet, here you stand. 

It seems that your life has no limit to the surprises it plans to bring. 

“I... I didn’t bother you last night, did I?” 

Knocking you out of your thoughts, you regard the man, “You mean with everythin’ that happened back at the river?” 

Quietly, he nods, “Yeah...” 

Blushing lightly, you clear your throat, crossing your arms across your chest and looking straight ahead of you. 

“You did what you had to do,” is what you settle on. 

You can tell that Arthur is a bit wary, and he glances to you from the corner of his eye, “Is that how you view it?” 

“You were a gentleman the whole time. I never once felt like somethin’ I didn’t want was gonna happen,” you assure him softly, unable to directly look at him lest you feel like you were back in that river water again, “I couldn’t have gotten a better person to take with me.” 

A slight smile cracks past Arthur’s nerves, and it’s like the world melts away with his worry. 

Your heart clenches, and you force yourself to look away, instead of looking back to the saloon down the road and remembering the sheriff’s suggestion. 

“But, I think we can do better,” smirking at him, you ask, “Wanna try our hands at gunslingers?” 

“Why not?” Arthur grins, tossing the spent butt of his cigarette to the ground before crushing it with his boot within the next step, “But this time, how about we avoid nearly gettin' drowned by one of ‘em?” 

Chuckling in agreement, you both pass your horses and cross the street. 

Coming upon the saloon, you hear a man lamenting inside, and you raise a brow in Arthur’s direction as you begin to listen in. 

“—he’s famous! Well, was, I guess, but still! I know he doesn’t seem like much now, but years ago he was somethin’ to see!” 

Arthur pushes the saloon doors apart, letting you walk in first as he follows in right after. The man at the bar glances back to you both, squinting through his small spectacles and running a hand through his orange mutton chops. 

“Say, you both wouldn’t be able to help a poor soul, would you?” 

Tossing a dollar onto the bar, Arthur pays for you both to have a whiskey while he regards the man, “Depends on what that soul needs.” 

“The name’s Theodore Levin, I’m the idiot who decided to dedicate his current life’s work to writing a biography on this drunkard over here,” he gestures to where you can see an older man passed out on the bar, his graying hair in disarray and snores escaping his mouth as he drools onto the counter, “His name’s Jim Calloway. He was a famous gunslinger, back when the Wild West really went by the name.” 

“Never heard of him,” Arthur hums as the bartender slides you both your whiskeys, “Say, why did you choose such a thing? I mean, you said it yourself, times ain’t like that no more.” 

“It’s about the glory of it all!” Theodore exclaims while you both hit back your whiskeys, “Nothin’ encapsulates the spirit of the Wild West more than the gunslingers who made it into what it was!” 

“Should’ve picked a better specimen, then...” Arthur mutters, making a face as Calloway nearly falls out of his chair. 

“Oh, there’s not many around anymore... I mean, they usually died anyway, but a lot of them ended up a lot worse than Calloway whenever things started to change... But there are others I’m tryin’ to find! I just... haven’t had the time... I’m unfortunately stuck at this letch’s side for a while yet, but I have a list of the others and where they could be if you’d like to help me!” 

Arthur quirks a brow at the man, “And if we did?” 

“I would give you partial credit to the books, of course!” he beams. 

Shaking his head, Arthur puts another bill down onto the counter, “Nah. I ain’t one for really makin’ my name anythin’ like that.” 

Frowning, Theodore rushes, reaching into the large bag at his side on the counter as he tries to placate Arthur, “I— I can pay, of course! How about half the proceeds of the book instead of the credit?” 

Humming, Arthur considers it, “Eh. Maybe.” 

Theodore pulls his hands from his bag, one of which holds a camera, while the other holds a set of photos alongside a few other papers. 

“All I would need you to do is follow up on the leads I have for the few I’d like to have in my book. There’s a couple here, Flaco Hernandez, Emmet Granger, Billy Midnight... I even have the Black Belle.” 

That catches your attention, including Arthur’s. 

“The what now?” 

“The Black Belle,” the man grins, moving his hand to grace the air as he paints his story with a dramatic wave, “She’s a French immigrant, came to America, say... I believe around thirty years ago. She is probably the only one on this list that hasn’t ended up like Mr. Calloway over here,” he mutters with some distaste, but he soon garners that spark back as he continues, “Rumor said she killed her husband in France, and that’s why she came here. She got married again, only to kill him too.” 

Whistling, Arthur sips his whiskey before joking, “Guess I’ll be sure to stay a bachelor in her presence.” 

“Probably best,” Theodore states, “But her legacy, it’s incredible! She’s been on the run for about twenty or twenty-five years now. Bounty hunters are _still_ tryin’ to find her.” 

“What did she do?” you ask, adding, “Well, apart from the misfortune she bestowed upon her husbands, of course.” 

“She’s killed men. Lots of them,” Theodore looks far too ecstatic at that as he gushes to you both, “Bounty hunters after her, lawmen... But she also is wanted for tryin’ to kill some big man down in Saint Denis. A feller with a big name and an even bigger reputation. But things didn’t go right, and she’s been goin’ around ever since.” 

“Sounds like she’s quite the gunslinger,” Arthur grins. 

“Oh, that she is! But my other favorite aspect of her is that she doesn’t use a revolver like everyone else,” Theodore’s smirk grows, “She prefers her carbine.” 

Looking to you, Arthur lips stretch even further, “Sounds just like you!” 

Glancing to your carbine that rests near the back of your hip, you snort, “I doubt the Black Belle and I are anythin’ alike.” 

“Well, your guns aren’t, that’s for sure.” 

Frowning, Arthur pivots back towards the ginger-haired man from where he sits at the bar, “Though you said she used a carbine?” 

“She does. But the Black Belle has a special one, one of a kind!” Theodore gestures to your gun then, “It’s got a specific varnish and it’s made of black steel. But, the biggest specialty is the engravings on it. Vines with flowers, on the body and the barrel. Orchids, I was told. It’s nothin’ but gorgeous. Well, if you ain’t gettin’ shot by it, that is.” 

Snickering, Arthur finishes his whiskey, “Sounds ‘bout right.” 

“Last I heard, she was settled somewhere in Bluewater Marsh. She’s clever, booby traps the whole swamps!” the writer loses some of his eagerness then, “You best be careful if you seek her out, though. She’s got a lot of men just from her gadgets alone.” 

“We’ll keep that in mind,” Arthur states, standing, “Guess we’ll help you out.” 

“Oh, golly! Thanks, mister!” Theodore unseats himself, gathering the camera back into his hands alongside all the photos and papers alongside them, “There’s are all the notes alongside everything else that I have, including their photos!” 

Taking them and glancing at them, Arthur bobs his head in thanks, “We’ll go about it as we can. We’re busy people I’m afraid.” 

“Whatever you can manage, I’m grateful for!” Theodore tells you as you both head towards the door of the saloon, “As long as you get me more than slurred words from this letch, I’ll be tickled pink!” 

Chuckling, you and Arthur walk out of the saloon, and the outlaw pockets the camera and all the papers given to him by placing them in his satchel. 

“That was quite an interestin’ discussion,” you snark. 

“That it was,” Arthur whistles lightly, and his Walker lifts its head, “Say, we should probably head back to camp. They’re probably wonderin’ where we are.” 

“Well, they won’t need to wonder what we’ve been up to. Last thing I need is the girls teasin’ me more.” 

Tilting his head at you, Arthur’s confusion is evident, “They’ve been pickin’ at ya?” 

You both cross the road, stopping for a second to let a man on his horse pass by before you continue with your initial gait. 

“It ain’t nothin’ mean,” you explain, “They’re just pokin’ at me as they do. You know how they are.” 

“Oh, more than you do,” Arthur says tiredly. 

You both end up at your horses, and as you get saddled onto D’or, Arthur hops onto his Walker. 

The ride back to camp is quiet, with the two of you riding in peace. You don’t mind it, even as your mind wanders on the past day or two, and all that had happened up until this point. 

It’s peaceful, and a nice reprieve as you head into the bustling camp. But, something is wrong. Especially as you and Arthur see Hosea pinching the bridge of his nose, and is looking rather displeased as you both near the first hitch at the mouth of camp. You can see where Bill and a few others load a something massive, all wrapped tightly in cloth into the back of the wagon you’d taken to town yesterday. 

“Hosea?” Arthur asks, hopping off of his Walker in concern as he approaches, “What happened?” 

“It’s Quicksilver,” the old man sighs, tired and worn as you hop off of D’or and come to join Arthur at his side, “He died...” 

Arthur’s face falls, and his voice grows muted, “Shit, Hosea, I’m sorry...” 

“He caught some infection of the lungs when we were up in Colter. Kieran tried whatever remedies he could, but apparently he was just too old to really come back ‘round,” Hosea looks to you both then, “I was about to go on a huntin’ trip, but I suppose I’ll be makin’ one to the stable now.” 

Arthur looks to you, and you can see that he’s made a decision before he even utters it, “Come on, we’ll take you.” 

“But you just got back—” 

“D’or was needin’ new shoes, anyways,” you add, smiling softly as you look to Arthur in agreement, “It ain’t no trouble, Hosea.” 

“Ah... Well...” he looks between the Walker and Trotter, “I suppose it would be nice to have some company while I kiss my billfold goodbye.” 

You and Arthur laugh as you head back over to your horses. 

“Say, which beast am I ridin’ on?” Hosea asks. 

“I reckon I’ll take the saddle, but me and Wolf will take D’or,” Arthur voices then, glancing back to you to make sure such a thing was okay. 

“You never did name this one, did you?” Hosea asks as he gets onto the Walker, and you wait patiently as Arthur settles himself on D’or across from him. 

“Nah... I found it, at Mrs. Adler’s place when we was in Colter... Think it’s a bit odd for me to keep it.” 

“Does Mrs. Adler want it?” 

“No... I already talked to her about it,” Arthur murmurs as you finally get the chance to hop on your horse, settling back behind the outlaw then, “Turns out it wasn’t hers, but one of the O’Driscolls there. Told me she’d rather see it as glue than as her own.” 

Hosea whistles as you set out towards the man roads, “That woman has got a lot of hate in her.” 

“She had a lot of love too. But then they killed her husband, and that was that.” 

The old man hums and steers the Walker onto the worn path in the ground. 

“But, Quicksilver aside, you said you was tryin’ to go on a hunt?” Arthur asks, “For what, exactly?” 

Hosea laughs, grinning like mad, then, “Oh, I got wind of this grizzly. A massive bastard, they said. Face all scarred up. It’s in New Ambarino, out by O’Creagh’s Run. Reckoned I could live the glory days of when I used to go huntin’ beasts like him.” 

Remembering Arthur’s story, you grin, “Oh, I think Arthur told me a bit about that,” at your words, Arthur glances over his shoulder in confusion, “Mentioned about how he nearly got eaten by a cougar ridin’ with you once.” 

Hosea laughs, “Oh, yes! That! He loves to tell the story wrong from how it actually happened—” 

“ _Hosea,_ ” Arthur warns lightly, and his shoulders bunch as you grin wickedly as you begin to head into town. 

“See,” the old man ignores Arthur, causing the outlaw to let out a sigh of grief, “We were huntin’ a cougar, and poorly I might add. They’re probably one of the hardest things to look for, but that’s just their nature. They only will be found when they want to be,” he starts, and as you pass the train station, he laughs, “Now, we did eventually find it after we split up, but Arthur was _convinced_ the damn thing was stalkin’ him.” 

“It was!” 

“Yes, after you put bait down right in front of its den!” 

Whistling, you shake your head, “Bad move.” 

“I was only seventeen!” Arthur says, as though it made a difference. 

“Oh, and I was seven when I stole my first pocket watch,” Hosea huffs, “Just admit it wasn’t a bright move, Arthur. We all make them, no matter the age.” 

Grumbling, Arthur snarks, “You should know that better than anyone.” 

“That I do, actually! It’s good to admit you make mistakes here and there than never at all,” you all turn the corner by the sheriff’s office, “Only an idiot would think that sayin’ they’ve always been perfect erases any of their mistakes. We’re humans, it’s in our nature to be flawed.” 

As you approach the stable, Arthur grumbles under his breath. 

“Perfection is unbecomin’ of you, Arthur. Granted, you’re not on Bill or Sean’s level of disarray, but I surely have stories to tell with your name on them,” Hosea points out, “But that’ll have to wait till later. We’re here.” 

Arthur slows D’or down, and the Fox Trotter comes to a stop as you arrive. 

The stableman at the door approaches you three. 

“Got some fine horses here,” he tells you all, his eyes mostly looking to D’or then as he whistles, “Now that there is quite an example! You sure you need any of our services, sir?” 

You smile lightly, taking a step forward, nodding, “Yes... She needs new shoes.” 

“Oh, sorry! I assumed she was yours!” the stableman glances to Arthur before returning his attention back to you, “But yes! We offer that service in our care package. She’ll also get a nice bath, treats and the like!” 

“Sounds good to me.” 

He looks to Hosea then, “And what about you, sir?” 

“Now this is the other one’s horse,” he explains, taking a step forward, “I was actually needin’ a new one altogether. ‘Fraid mine went and died on me.” 

The stableman frowns, looking rather downtrodden at the news, “That’s quite a shame... It’s always hard, losin’ a horse... But, you’re in luck for comin’ here! We have some pretty nice horses in! Nicer than my usual stock!” 

“Is that so?” 

Hosea follows after the stableman as one of the boys working there takes D’or, leading her and taking her into the stables after them. Another one approaches, looking to Arthur. 

“Was there anythin’ you wanted me to do with him, sir?” 

“Not sure, yet...” 

“Did you want to go and look at the other horses?” you ask. 

Shrugging, Arthur hums, “I suppose...” 

“I can put him in one of the free stalls while you look,” the boy smiles at Arthur, taking the Walker’s reins and guiding him into the stables. 

“Well come on then,” you step ahead of Arthur, “Maybe you’ll find the right one while you’re here.” 

Stepping inside, you begin to overhead the stableman and Hosea’s conversation. 

“—all of them have their papers and everythin’!” he chirps, and he points to the gray horse that Hosea seems to be eyeing, “That there is a Turkoman, the silver colt there.” 

Hosea approaches his stall, looking in, “How does he handle?” 

“Like a dream,” the stableman tells him, “He’s nicer than what we usually carry. Good age, temperament. For four-hundred-and-seventy-five, he’s yours.” 

“Think we have ourselves a deal,” Hosea grins. 

“Great choice, sir!” at the man’s call, the stableboy moves past Hosea as you and Arthur walk past, opening the stall door and grabbing the Turkoman’s lead to guide him out, “Let me just grab the paperwork...” 

Looking to Arthur then, you gesture to the other stalls with horses inside of them, “Well?” 

The outlaw moves on ahead, almost begrudgingly. You can tell he isn’t exactly entertained by the prospect. 

But, if you were in his shoes, you know you’d be the same way. In fact, you probably wouldn’t even set foot in a stable after D’or. 

“See anythin’ you like?” you whisper, coming up to his side as he stops at the last stall, taking in a small Palamino Morgan that looks at you both from its stall. 

Arthur sighs, shaking his head, “Not really—” 

There’s a crashing sound then, and both of you look over to the back wall of the barn where one of the stableboys jumps out, and you hear a horse scream from the hidden stall he runs from. 

“You dumb boy!” the stableman snaps, rushing over to where the door flings open, and you can hear the horse inside of it kicking the stall and screeching, “I told you, leave him be!” 

“I— I just wanted to try and see if he’d let me tend to his wounds—” 

“He won’t, boy! He won’t let no one!” the stableman looks to the stall then, his face paling as he takes in the sight it holds, “Jesus, you riled him up—” 

“What is it?” Arthur asks, his voice steady as he begins to come up. 

“Sir, there’s nothin’ to see—” 

“I asked what it was.” 

The stableman relents, looking to the stall hopelessly, “It’s... It’s this horse. I didn’t do it to him, but the man I took it from last night did.” 

Arthur moves over to the stall, and you follow. And when you take in the state of the poor creature, your heart breaks. 

It’s a larger horse, a stallion and a Trotter like D’or, and he’s bleeding from multiple spots on its legs and neck. His blood lost to the dark, black sheen of his coat, running in rivulets from where he has opened what scabs managed to form. 

There are two particularly nasty, open patches, both on his right legs, and there are marks on his side from where someone laid into him with their spurs. There’s only a bit of white around his body, with some being on its hooves. Mainly, however, coloration is found on his face, forming a mask that covers its face up until its straggly hair falls into place, almost looking like his skull. 

He rages, thrashing about the stall as Arthur curses. 

“I had the man arrested for poor animal husbandry,” the stableman murmurs, “He was drunk, beatin’ on this poor Trotter outside of the saloon... I had the sheriff take him, and then I took the horse so I could try and fix him up. Only a bastard with no honor would do this...” 

The stallion lands on his hooves heavily, rearing his head and flaring its nostrils as it looks to Arthur. 

You watch as they look at one another, and the stallion seems to stare back at Arthur. It’s then that you see the wound near his left eye, the skin raw and bleeding into the white mask of his face, the crimson color alongside the white contrasting against the pale blue of its eyes as it stares back at Arthur without any sign of fear. 

You see the outlaw tilt his head as the horse pants, now solely focused on him. 

“How much do you want for him?” 

The stableman gapes alongside you. 

“Sir, he’s not—” 

“I’ll pay.” 

The stableman quiets, but Arthur does not look to him. Instead, he keeps his eyes on the stallion, just as it does with him. 

“I’ll tell you what,” the stableman begins, “If you can lead him out of the stall without him nippin’ or kickin’ you, he’s yours.” 

Looking to the man, you let your confusion voice itself, “You ain’t gonna charge him?” 

“I won’t, if he’s able. As soon as I got him in that stall last night he wanted nothin’ to do with any of us... I figure, if he’s able to put up with him, then he can have at. He’s practically wild.” 

You look back to Arthur, watching as the outlaw weighs the situation. The stallion doesn’t move, watching the man as he begins his approach. 

Your breath stalls in your lungs as Arthur comes up, and he raises a hand slowly. 

“Easy, boy. I ain’t like the man that hurt you,” he murmurs. 

The stallion shifts a little on his feet, but he doesn’t freak as he did on the stableboy. Beside you, the stableman looks shocked, his jaw lying about the hay-covered ground as Arthur steadily approaches without issue. 

Beside you, you hear someone come up, and you glance over to see Hosea, smiling as wide as can be. 

“He’s got a way wit’ ‘em, doesn’t he?” Hosea murmurs. 

Looking back, you find that Arthur has gotten close enough to pat the poor, abused Fox Trotter, and you can’t find it in yourself to disagree. 

Without issue, Arthur grabs onto the rope tied to his head, and he begins to walk out of the stall, the stallion following in tow without so much as a complaint. 

“Well, I’ll be damned...” 

As the stableman comes up, the horse snorts at him, growing unsteady and moving closer to Arthur, and when he tries to reach, the stallion goes to bite the man. 

“Watch out!” 

Arthur turns, but the stallion doesn’t go for him. In fact, it only seems aggravated with the other man, shifting away and allowing Arthur to pet him once more. 

“Shit...” he mutters, “Guess he’s yours.” 

“Could I get some medicines and salves from you?” Arthur asks, running his hand on the bloodied bridge of the horse’s face and grimacing harshly at his wounds, “And a wet rag too, please? Preferably with warm water.” 

“Yes, of course.” 

They rush past you and Hosea, and Hosea hums, watching as Arthur opens his satchel to remove what looks like a carrot. 

“So... You got yourself a horse,” the old man murmurs. 

“Seems I have.” 

Crossing his arms, Hosea moves back to lean against one of the wooden supports to the stable as he regards Arthur and his new mount, “What are you to do with the Walker?” 

“I suppose I can use him for now, while this poor thing heals,” Arthur says mutedly, almost like he’s talking to himself, “That, and until I can be sure if he’s even rideable.” 

“It may take time, but I’m sure he will come around to you as he already has,” Hosea’s face pinches, “He’s rather bad off...” 

Arthur looks livid as the stableboy arrives with a bucket of water and a rag as he requested, and he takes it, setting the bucket on the floor and wringing the cloth before bringing it up to the stallion’s face to clean him. 

“I wanna kill the bastard who did this.” 

“Don’t blame you. I’m sure the horse feels and desires the same, with the way he’s gone after others so far.” 

You watch as Arthur wipes away the blood on the horse’s coat as gently as can be, looking almost distraught with his state. 

And then, you find yourself blurting, “What do you want to name him?” 

Arthur blinks, looking over to you, as though reminded by your voice that you were still there It doesn‘t come as a surprise, with how his anger has swept him up. 

At your question, his eyes narrow in thought, and he hums as he works the now pink-tinted rag over the horses stained muzzle. 

“I think... I think I’ll call him Bedwyr.” 

Hosea hums in approval from beside you, “One of King Arthur’s knights, and the Welshman who through Excaliber back to the lady of the lake upon King Arthur’s dyin’ wish. It’s perfect.” 

Glancing to his aged companion, Arthur queries, “What about you, Hosea? What’s your’s gonna be called?” 

“Ah, think I’m gonna pay homage to Quicksilver. That poor mustang got me through thick and thin over the years,” he exasperates, “Silver Dollar had quite a nice ring to it.” 

Arthur hums as you nod, whispering, “It’s great, Hosea.” 

It’s then that the stableman comes back, looking to the three of you with his arms full of various bottles and a few jars. 

“Your new horse is saddled up, sir, and we managed to get yours taken care of, miss,” he then regards Arthur, “And this here, all the medicines and salves you could need. The doctor we had prescribed these this mornin’ to help with infection and healin’.” 

“Mighty kind of you,” Arthur takes them and places them into his satchel, but instead of closing it, he looks to the stableman, “How much do I owe you?” 

“Told ya, if you could take him out, he’s free...” he starts, “I may have lost a bit of money, but... I’m just glad he’s got someone in the world to finally care about him. Think that’s all he really needed.” 

Arthur looks to him then, “I reckon you’re right...” 

“You all take care now. And if you need anythin’ with any of those horses, just let me know,” he tells you, offering you a quick smile as he heads back into the rest of his stables. 

“Okay, seems like we’re ready to go,” Hosea glances between the two of you, “Say, you ready to hunt a bear?” 

Arthur chuckles, “You’re always ready to get your ass mauled, aren’t you?” 

“There’s no fun in lettin’ time do me in,” Hosea laughs, and the three of you head out of the stables then. 

“Say, we can run by camp real quick. Make sure we got everythin’, and that way I can take Bedwyr back,” Arthur suggests. 

Nodding, Hosea saddles up on his new Turkoman, “Sounds like a plan to me... Come on, let’s ride!”

**\---**

After returning to camp for a short time, both to make sure you were well stocked in supplies and for Arthur to turn over Bedwyr to a very furious Kieran, you all began your trip in the direction of Grizzlies East.

Soon, the air grew a bit nippier than it was down in the basins near Valentine and Horseshoe, and the terrain grew steeper still as the land raised with the oncoming juts of the mountain range that grew closer with each footfall of your horses. 

By the time you arrived, the sun was setting, and Hosea suggested to make a camp for you all to stay at so the hunt could commence come morning. 

It reminded you of when you all worked the real estate scheme in Blackwater, and it brings a nostalgic smile to your lips as you all feast upon the rabbit you caught for dinner. 

Nearby, your three horses graze just as you do on your meal, and you listen in to Hosea and Arthur’s banter gleefully as you eat. 

“—it was _not_ huntin’ until you spilled bait all over yourself,” Hosea argues, pointing his fork towards the other outlaw, “Those sounds you were hearin’ was nothin’ more than a squirrel foraging nearby. And you wanna know how I know? Because you shot it deader than the reaper himself when it popped out of that bush.” 

“All of them sound the same when you can’t see ‘em,” Arthur mumbles, and you laugh openly from across the campfire. 

“Suppose so. Wolf over here convinced an entire town a bear was livin’ out of Bluewater Marsh just by stompin’ about,” Hosea smirks. 

“Hey, that was _one_ time!” 

Hosea laughs as the fire crinkles like the lines in his skin from his smile, “I must say, I’m rather glad that Arthur brought you to us. You’ve given us a breath of life we hadn’t had in our sails for quite some time.” 

Growing serious, you look between them both, “R-Really?” 

“I would say so! Most folk we pick up, well, they aren’t great. Not sayin’ I’m perfect, or I hate who is runnin’ with us now. But we’ve had a few in the past that have been less than stellar. And with Micah bein’ the last one before you, it wasn’t the best to have come along when we were already strugglin’ as it is... And with Blackwater behind us, and the Pinkertons right on our tail, it’s been nothin’ but bad dice the entire time... But you, you’re the outlier of our misfortunes.” 

“Oh, I...” you murmur, “Am I?” 

“Yeah,” it’s Arthur that speaks then, and you look towards the fire as he adds, “You comin’ to us... It’s been the only good thing we’ve had happen in a while.” 

You’re not sure what to say to that, and so you smile tenderly as you eye your boots, the warmth in your chest just as raging like the fire before you. 

The feeling stays with you for the rest of the night, despite the cool wisp of the winds that whisper in your ears as you fall asleep.

**\---**

“—I’m tellin’ you, the bait is set wrong!”

Lookin’ between the two men, you sigh. 

“I honestly don’t think there’s a problem with it. He’s gonna smell it either way,” Arthur argues. 

“I think our biggest concern is who here has the rifle?” 

Both men turn to your brows furrowed. 

Hosea looks a bit taken off guard by the question, “I don’t have one...” 

“A rifle? Why on earth would we need that?” Arthur asks, “I’ve got my revolver, and I can just shoot it in the head.” 

Refraining from smacking your hand across your face, you sigh, approaching the two men, “Because, that _revolver_ of yours ain’t gonna cut it. If this grizzly is as massive as Hosea boasts, it’s gonna take a lot to bring him down. And even then, bear skulls are as thick as you are at times, Arthur,” the outlaw makes a face at that as Hosea snickers, “So, a rifle with express bullets is the best way to take them down without the bear gettin' you first. Unless both of you want to yell at each other about bait when we don’t even have the right guns to kill it once it gets here, of course.” 

“Arthur, you got a rifle?” 

“Yeah. It’s on the Walker...” he mumbles. 

As the outlaw goes to whistle, you stop him, practically pulling his hand away from his mouth from where he brought it up to make the shrill noise, “I’ll go get it. If you go off and do that, you can get the bear here before your horse has even gotten up the hill here.” 

“Seems like we should’ve just left this to you, Wolf,” Hosea mutters. 

“Well, as long as I’m able to get the bastard without him gettin' us, I’m okay with what happens here,” you begin to jog away, looking back over your shoulder, “I’ll be right back!” 

You rush, making it to Arthur’s Walker and finding the rifle at its side on his saddle. You remove it, going into his saddlebags to grab the proper box of ammo. As you walk back up the hill, changing out the first bullet of the cartridge, you hear a damning roar. 

“Shit!” 

It’s Arthur, and with a few shots of his revolver, you were sprinting up the rest of the hill. You don’t hesitate, taking the rifle and looking through its scope to see the massive grizzly towering over Arthur and Hosea. 

Arthur’s reloading, having pumped all of his bullets into the gigantic beast as Hosea cowers underneath it. You can see his nerves getting to him, a rare sight within itself, as he drops a few bullets in his attempt to reload the chambers. 

Moving your gun and its sights, you put the crosshairs right over the bear’s heart as it comes down, its jaws parted in a mighty roar. 

You pull the trigger. 

The gunshot rings out, growing fainter as it carries over the mountainside. 

The bear’s roar has been silenced, and you look through the scope to see it collapse into a heap between Arthur and Hosea. Both men scurry backward, kicking up dirt as they pant, their eyes locked on the body of the beast that nearly killed them. 

You run up, throwing the rifle over your shoulder and strapping it to yourself as you come upon them both. 

“Are you okay!?” 

“ _Jesus!”_ Arthur jumps, looking as though you were a ghost who apparated in front of him, “You... You saved us.” 

“Think I’m d-done huntin’ for a while,” Hosea breathes, and he looks to you, unusually humbled, “Thank you, Wolf... You just saved two idiots from killin’ themselves.” 

You let out a small breath of relief before looking between them both, “I told you. Bears are nasty creatures... I hated them for a reason when I was a kid.” 

“I can see why,” Arthur hisses as he stands, groaning a bit and looking down to his dirtied clothes, “Think I’m not a fan, either.” 

The wind rustles the trees overhead as Hosea whistles for Silver Dollar, a bit shaky as he pulls his hand from his mouth once his eyes shift to you. 

“I’m headin’ back to camp. I’ve had my fill,” he murmurs, “An old man like me isn’t cut out for events such as this.” 

“Well, if you’re headin’ back, what are we to do with this?” Arthur asks, regarding the body of the grizzly then. 

Hosea looks like he’s seen an angel as Silver Dollar rounds up the hill, ears perked as he trots to the old man, “I suppose you could take it to the butcher in Valentine, see if you could sell the pelt for a good price there. If not, the meat alone should be a good take,” he pauses then as Silver Dollar stops in front of him, “And speaking of taking, how about you have the map that told me about this monster?” 

You look to Hosea in confusion as he reaches into his jacket pocket, and he removes some folded paper before handing it to you. 

“This here, it’s a map I got off a guy. And by that I mean I stole it from him,” you chuckle lightly as you take it, unfolding it to take a gander as Hosea continues, “It lists a lot of rare or massive beasts like this grizzly here. Seems like it’s right up your alley, Wolf.” 

“Thank you,” you fold it back up, saving it for later as you put it into your satchel. 

“Alright, you two have fun. I’m gonna sit down at camp and read me a book,” Hosea grunts as he hefts himself onto Silver Dollar’s saddle. 

“See ya there, Hosea.” 

He waves you both off, and he spurs Silver Dollar into a gallop as he heads down the trail you followed earlier. 

Turning, you look at the bear. 

“You ever learn how to skin one of these?” you ask. 

“No, not really,” Arthur goes to remove his hunting knife then, sending you a slight grin, “But who said it’s too early to learn?”

**\---**

You ride into Valentine, the back of D’or covered with the pelt from the gnarly grizzly you had slain.

Approaching the butcher, you hop off, untying it from D’or’s backside and approaching the man. 

“How can I—” the man’s eyes bulge as he takes in the sight of the pelt, “You... You got him!” 

“Got who?” Arthur asks as he stops beside you at the butcher’s stall. 

“The— the bear! That nasty one up in Grizzlies East! I recognize the scarrin’ on the head, around the eye!” 

Gesturing to him with It, you tilt your head, “You interested in buyin’ his pelt?” 

“Ah, I’m honored. But I’d just butcher it like I do everythin’ else,” he jests lightly before adding, “But there’s a man. A trapper. He has a stall in the market in Saint Denis—” 

“Now we ain’t ridin’ that far,” Arthur tuts. 

Grinning wider, the man continues, “Well, you’re in luck, because he also has a small set up over by Riggs Station. It’s a little southwest from here, in West Elizabeth.” 

“He’d buy it?” 

“He specializes in tailoring pelts like these here,” he looks at in awe, “He’d be the only one to do it justice. But his meat, now that I can take care of.” 

You get a decent take as you hand over the wrapped bits you were able to harvest from the grizzly, and the man thanks you. 

“Remember, he’s the one to go to if you get anythin’ else like that!” 

Nodding, Arthur looks to you. 

“Ready for another ride?”

**\---**

You arrive at the trapper’s stall, and the old man looks at you both oddly as you ride up.

“Lookin’ to sell somethin’ today?” he asks, seeing the pelt tied to your mare. 

“Yes, actually. We got referred to you by a fellow in Valentine, the butcher there. Said you could make good of this pelt?” 

“Oh, now, ain’t that somethin’,” he says as you approach, your arms full of the bear’s pelt, “Been a while since I’ve seen someone bring me somethin’ as remarkable as this... I’d say, probably One-shot William was the last one...” 

Blinking, you look at the trapper then, “You knew my father?” 

The trapper’s eyes widen, and Arthur looks between you both out of confusion. 

“You’re Willie’s daughter? . . .” 

“Yes,” you grin slightly at him, “And you are? . . .” 

“I was a partner of his when he first started huntin’... We opened a stall in the Saint Denis marketplace together, some years ago... My god, I’d say about almost thirty years, lookin’ back,” he scratches at his chin through his beard, “I haven’t seen him in some years, though... How is he?” 

“Oh, well... He passed away...” 

The trapper’s smile falls, and he looks to you, a bit crestfallen, “My dear... I’m sorry...” 

“Nah, it’s okay,” you offer him a small smile, “You didn’t know.” 

“I didn’t know he had a daughter,” he murmurs, eyeing you, “Last we saw each other was in Saint Denis, right after I opened my stall there with him... He told me he was leavin’, that he was in love with some French girl and that they were to start a family together. Guess you’re the result of that.” 

Nodding sheepishly, you hum, “Yeah...” 

“Your mother, she didn’t bring you any trouble, did she?” 

His question has you squinting, and you look at him in bewilderment, “I... I don’t understand what you mean...” 

“Oh, I didn’t mean any offense,” he clarifies, genuine with you then, “It’s just... He said she was on the run. Wanted, for attempted murder in Saint Denis... I couldn’t believe it when he told me. Him, runnin’ off with a woman like that! I was worried the bounty hunters were gonna get her with the price over her head...” 

“No, no, my mother, she wasn’t like that,” you tell him, “She died when I was young. ‘Bout four or so... She was the sweetest person I knew.” 

“Well, most people didn’t know her to be that way,” he murmurs, “She had a name... God, it’s been so long I can’t quite recall it... It was... Oh lord... Believe it was somethin’ colorful. But the rumor is that she’s still a wanted woman, hidin’ over that way!” 

Looking to Arthur, your heart races, and your eyes dip down to his satchel as a nasty thought pops into your head. 

“Arthur, can I see your bag?” 

The outlaw does as you ask, handing his satchel as you snatch it from him. You dig within its contents, trying to find what you’re desperately searching for. 

“Now, can’t you be thinkin’ of someone else?” Arthur asks, looking to the man then as you find the collection of papers you sought. 

“I don’t believe I am... It was quite a wild story. Come to think of It, I think I even heard a rumor that your mother killed him!” at the glare Arthur sends him, the trapper is quick to add, “But most things like that are often rumors!” 

Finding the pictures, you sort through them until you find the one you are looking for. 

You pale, your lungs heaving, your eyes stinging. Your chest feels like its crushing under its own weight as you begin to shake. 

“Wolf?” Arthur asks, concerned. 

“She’s— s-she's—” 

You can’t believe it. 

There, captured in grainy ink, her black dress flowing and that engraved carbine at her side, is the Black Belle. 

But more damning than anything else, it is the recognition that comes with her portrait. 

“That’s— she’s—” you tremble, “She’s alive...” 

“Who is?” 

You look to Arthur then, your eyes red and voice raw. 

“M-My mother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask


	8. Horseshoe III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Glancing back over your shoulder, you take note of Arthur’s conflicted expression, and you sigh, “What now?” 
> 
> “Nothin’,” he murmurs, not rising to your poking as you come back into the main part of their small town, finding D’or waiting for you patiently right where you left her. 
> 
> “What? No tryin’ to tell me anythin’? No tryin’ to convince me?” 
> 
> “I learned a long time ago that once you’re set on somethin’, there ain’t nothin’ I can do to change your mind,” Arthur tells you bluntly as he whistles for his Walker, the colt responding and moving forward, just as D’or does then. 
> 
> Snorting, you reach the Trotter and glance at Arthur as he begins to mount onto his horse. 
> 
> “So you aren’t gonna push anymore?” 
> 
> “No. Not like I was,” he tells you mutely as you saddle up on the mare below you, “I ain’t gonna stop worryin’, and I ain’t gonna stand by if you need help, but...” pausing, the outlaw sighs, adjusting his hat on his head then, “I ain’t gonna stop you or stand in your way no more, either.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This popped out sooner than expected.
> 
> Surprise?
> 
> Anyways, I had fun with this one! Expect a little more past build up here. And we get to see an old friend! ;)
> 
> Hope you lot like it!
> 
> Enjoy!~

Up in the trees, the birds sing with the arrival of early morning. A patient breeze rolls through with their song, rustling the leaves and adding more to the fine whistling that comes from down below the canopy.

Smoke rises leisurely, puffing out from the chimney and offering a sign of domestic life as something crashes through the underbrush.

It’s a young girl, no older than five, covered from head to toe in dirt and leaves sticking out from her hair in a wild way. She pants, breathless, her eyes wide and palm bleeding from where she has scuffed it.

From the porch of the cabin in front of her, the whistling stops, and a small curse escapes the woman who spots the girl who had emerged from the woods. She sets down her book, lifting the hem of her pale dress and rushing down the steps of her cabin.

The woman leans down onto her knees, a few of the loose strands of her black hair falling into her face as she does so, her brows squinting. Carefully, she takes the young girl’s hand into her own, wincing at the way her palm is rubbed and scraped raw.

“What happened?” the woman asks, then going to yank the sticks and leaves caught in the girl’s hair.

“I got it while playin’,” the young girl tells her, eyes a bit sheepish, “I know you n’ Papa don’t want me out n’ the woods, but I got bored...”

“Oh, ma fleur...” she sighs wistfully, shaking her head with a small smile tinging her lips, “What am I gonna do with you?”

Your father shoves the door of your cabin open, taking in the sight of you both, and the appearance of you. His eyes widen, and he rushes forth, coming down to your side while your mother sighs.

“Wolf!” he exclaims, looking at your wounded hand and frowning, “Lord almighty, what did you do?”

“She was playing, William,” your mother grins, “Apparently she was bored.”

“You know better than to go off in the woods!” he chastises lightly, and he stands, grabbing you by your uninjured hand and tugging you towards the house, “Come on, we need to clean that up.”

Your mother rises to her feet as well, following after you both as she eyes your father oddly, “You’re being rather worrisome, William. She’s just fine.”

Opening the door to your cabin, “You say that, but that’s not always gonna be true. You know exactly what can happen to her if they found out where we were.”

Your father sets you down onto the counter, and he immediately goes to get the pitcher of water and the rag beside it. Your hand stings and you eye the way your flesh is peeled, scrapped up and almost going numb from where the bark of the tree root caught on it when you fell.

“And they won’t,” the stern tone in your mother’s words has you looking sheepishly up at her, and her face is rather grim as your father faces her, “I made sure that we got far enough away from them in Saint Denis. They think I’m dead, William.”

“They obviously don’t believe it,” he murmurs, taking the wag and wetting it then, “Even now, that bastard _still_ has a bounty over your head, and you want to tell me he truly believes you’re gone? He wants proof. And it doesn’t matter how long it takes him to get it.”

The rag stings as he wipes at your hand, and while you wince, you do not cry as he tends to your wound. Your mother comes closer, and she places her hand over your father’s, stopping him.

“It’s not that I don’t take it seriously. I know why you worry. Why you’re so scared for us,” she then takes the rag from his hand, and placing it on the counter, “If they found out I’m still alive and they try to come for me, I would never let them hurt you. Or Wolf,” she tells him, “You have to trust me on that...”

He breathes out as she leans close, pressing their foreheads together, “I do trust you... I just... It’s somethin’ that I worry about every day and every night... We ran for a damn good reason... And with Wolf, if they knew she was our daughter— . . . It petrifies me.”

“I have no intention on having them find out about Wolf. Ever.”

Your father swallows, and he glances to you, his voice quiet as you stare back at him.

“But what if they do?”

The weight of your mother’s vow does not escape even you as she glances to her beloved carbine on the wall, collecting dust just as you were collecting flowers amidst the forest this morning.

“I’d kill them before they touched a single hair on her head,” she presses a chaste kiss on your father’s cheek, and grabs the rag from his hand, “But as of right now, they don’t know about any of us. There’s no point in stressing about something that hasn’t happened.”

And as your mother begins to clean the scrape that stings on your palm, you still feel the tension between them in the room.

Especially when your father looks out the window and pales.

“But it has.”

“Black Belle!” you hear a man shout, “We know you’re here! Listen, we just want you to come out and make this easy for us! Would be a shame to ruin the home you made for yourself!”

Your mother curses, and she looks at your father. She doesn’t waste any time though, going over to the wall to grab her carbine as your father grabs onto you.

“Get her under the bed.”

You try to cry as your father wraps you up in his arms, but he places a hand over your mouth, muffling the sound.

“Wolf, please, you have to stay quiet.”

You still cry, trying to wiggle out of your father’s arms as you hear your mother load her carbine.

“Black Belle, you have till the count of three!”

Your mother moves to the door, her eyes meeting both your own and your father’s from where you huddle underneath the bed, shaking. She blinks, looking away as she readies her gun.

“One!”

Your mother clicks the last piece of her black carbine into place.

“Two!”

Taking a deep breath, your mother clicks her gun, readying it.

“Three—”

Bullets rip into the cabin, breaking the windows and coming through the walls.

You to scream against the palm of your father’s hand, watching as your mother bursts through the door and into the frenzy of bullets.

 

**\---**

You glance at your palm, seeing how the skin nearing the start or your wrist is faded with the scar there. You flex it in the moonlight, taking in the healed flesh and trying to think back to when you were younger.

Your mother... You had little to no memories of her. Of what happened.

You just remember her as though she were the sun in the sky, there one moment, and gone the next. Except, for you, morning never came again. Your mother never came back.

Your father, you remember his pain. How sad he had been. But you never knew why. You only recalled the fresh grave plot outside, and the way he longed for her like the warmth of the sun on a cold winter’s night, his memories like flames that could never reach the chill he felt down to his bones in her absence.

For years, you spent watching your father mourn your mother, growing older as he grew more and more worried. Especially when you wanted to leave by yourself when you wanted to learn how to shoot. He was always scared, but for you, always telling you that you were to get hurt, or telling you something was to go wrong. It became a constant, his paranoia, and you soon began to learn that it only grew as you did.

It wasn’t until he got sick that he had to relent to a degree, and as he only got sicker, you found yourself worrying and fretting over him as he had done with you over the years. Terrified, you were, to lose the one thing you had left. The one person you had left.

You thought that when your father died, there was nothing. No one left.

And now, you’ve come to find out that isn’t the truth.

From under the canvas of your tent, you stare past the dancing flames of your shielded campfire and out into the forest surrounding you. It’s raining steadily now, and its torrent is almost as roaring as the thoughts that plague you as your stomach twists into knots.

A day has passed since you’ve talked to the trapper, the one that knew your father. And it has been a day spent with you in disbelief with the knowledge he also had of your mother.

The Black Belle.

You look down to your other hand, to the photo that Theodore had given to you, and you feel that knot in your gut only grows tighter at the sight of it. At the portrait of your mother, as young as you remember her in passing, and that damned carbine at her side.

Just like yours is, from where it is strapped over your back.

Growing frustrated, you take her photo and shove it into the satchel at your side, only to pull your scout jacket further around yourself as you tuck your knees against your chest.

You were near the Heartland Overflow, a little bit off from Emerald Ranch. Arthur knew of the place, saying he had stolen a coach for a fence located there, and when you had suggested staying in the town during the storm, Arthur said he’d rather take his chances with lightning. It was odd, supposedly, but you were in no mood to start an argument over where you were staying. Not when it was your biggest concern.

A few feet away, D’or raises her head at you, nickering softly from where you have her hitched to a nearby tree. She knows you’re upset, just as she always does, and even the sight of her brings you dismay as you stare down to the tops of your knees.

You could never hate D’or, never. But you can’t forget that she was foaled from your mother’s horse, that she was named from the few words of French that your mother taught you— it was something that used to bring you comfort, but now, only added to your turmoil.

Looking up, you happen to catch the sight of Arthur’s Walker as it brings him in, and you let out a breath as the soaked cowboy comes close to the small thicket of trees you both decided to camp under to wait out the storm. He hitches the Walker near D’or and grabs something off of the saddle. A rabbit or two, it looks like, as he brings them close.

You can tell he used his gun, something that brings a slight smirk to your face as he comes forth, carrying the two mutilated bodies and grumbling.

“Looks like shit, but I can at least make it taste good,” he says with some defense, and you watch him, rainwater running in rivulets off of his leather hat as he grabs his knife and begins to skin them.

“I didn’t say anythin’,” you murmur.

“Didn’t have to. You got a look,” he works one of the skins off, peeling it from the raw meat as the sky rumbles overhead, “I know how you are ‘bout this.”

“Lemme guess... You used your rifle.”

Blinking, Arthur looks up at you, his exposed hair dripping and skin glistening then, “How can ya tell?”

“Well, it ain’t tore up like it would be if you stuck to habit with your shotgun,” the outlaw makes a sour face at that, and you chuckle at his expression before adding, “And the shot itself, it’s way too tore up from the entry to be from somethin’ like a carbine, or even from regular ammo with the way it comes clean through to the other side... My guess is that you used it and the express ammo I loaded when I had to shoot that bear.”

“Jesus, you’re like a lil’ Sherlock Holmes, aren’t you?”

“Sherlock Holmes?” you ask, never having heard such a name, “Who’s that?”

Shaking his head, Arthur goes back to prepping the rabbits for you both, “It’s from a story, but it’s not from here. Some British man wrote it, I think.”

Raising a brow, you tilt your head at him, “And how did you come to know of it?”

“I was on a train. One I was about to rob, ironically enough... But a man on there, I saw him readin’ it. He came over to the states, was tryin’ to see Strawberry he said. Let me read it while I told him about the town.”

“Did you enjoy any of it?”

Smiling softly once he is done seasoning the meat, you watch as Arthur places the first cuts of his rabbit onto the small metal grate overhanging the flames to cook, “I did, but only a little... Some of the words I didn’t understand. They talk different over there,” he explains, setting the first rabbit aside to work on the second then, “He was a bit of a mean bastard when I asked him what somethin’ meant, so I definitely enjoyed stealing his pocket watch once Dutch gave us the go-ahead.”

You laugh, picturing such a scene and shaking your head.

“I don’t really take you as much of a book reader,” you murmur.

“I ain’t really,” he admits, “I mean, they got their place, but I’ve never been one to really get into stories... I was more so the one doin’ things growin’ up, but John, he was the one who liked books the best, like Hosea... And it’s funny, now he can’t be bothered with any of it.”

You chuckle as you settle against one of the poles of your tent, leaning back and watching him then, “I love books, whenever I can get a hand on ‘em...”

“What kinda books?” Arthur questions, setting the ruined pelt of the rabbit down on the sodden grass beside him, “I know you like to take Mary-Beth's books and read ‘em when ya got the time. What kinda stuff have you read? ‘Cause I don’t exactly see you like one for somethin’ like those Holmes books...”

“Well, I like any stories that have happy endin’s, you know?” you whisper, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself, “Sometimes they’re escapes. Like lookin’ glasses but into a better place... I like readin’ about things workin’ out, endin’ well... Gives me hope that maybe one day I can get my own happy endin’.”

Stalling at your words, the outlaw looks at you cautiously, “A happy endin’?”

“Things end, one way or another... They are either good or bad,” you look towards the fire then, “I learned young that life wasn’t afraid of givin’ you misfortunes. And I suppose I grew up hopin’ that my final days wouldn’t be filled with them...”

Humming, Arthur flips the cooking pieces of rabbit with the new cuts he has, and he glances to you, “How would you like it to end?”

You smile partially, your eyes looking towards the fire but not actually focusing on it, your chest growing heavy.

“I was hopin’... hopin’ I could’ve stayed in my parents’ cabin. That I could’ve gone huntin’ as my dad taught me,” you breathe, “I know it’s not exactly much to want for, but. . . I could’ve spent the rest of my days like that there.”

“Alone?”

Your eyes move to Arthur, and you find the outlaw looking to you. He’s properly soaked as the rain pelts onto him, waterlogging his own once olive scout jacket until it is almost an emerald green, and his blue jeans now almost black from the amount of water that has absorbed into the fabric. His small breaths come out in puffs with the slight nip to the air. But his eyes, that piercing, clear shade of green freckled with tones of blue and hazel, they feel like something warm as they bore into you.

“Alone?” you echo, your voice escaping you from what feels like somewhere else.

“Nothin’ just,” Arthur ducks his head, and he goes back to tending to your portion of rabbit, “You didn’t mention spendin’ that endin’ with anyone...”

“Oh...” you breathe, and you look away as well, “I— well... I’m not like most women... I’m not lookin’ to get a husband.”

“At all?”

Your eyes move to Arthur despite the tension between you two, and you find him looking at you oddly.

“Well, maybe not _at all,_ ” you hum, blushing, “Just... It’s not my initial intent to. If it happens, it happens. But it’s not somethin’ I’m outright seekin’,” you explain in a hushed voice.

“Ah...” is all Arthur can come up with then, and he grabs one of the small, metal bowls he lugs in his kit, and places the rabbit into it.

As he hands it to you, the fresh food steaming, you find yourself blurting, “What about you?”

Your hands linger near each other on the bowl, with your fingertips almost touching, and the warmth that you feel not all from the cooked rabbit as your eyes meet.

“Guess I feel about the same,” Arthur murmurs as your hands about brush as he pulls away, “If it happens, it happens... If it ever will...”

Nodding, you quickly avert your gaze to the food in your hands, and you go to pick at it, nails separating bits and pieces of the meat. You’re almost like a crow, with how you eat, merely pecking away at your food while Arthur flips over his pieces of rabbit, their air as tense as it is thick with rain.

“You know, I was... I was engaged once.”

The words take you by complete and utter surprise, and you look at Arthur, your brow furrowing.

“You... You were?”

He chuckles depreciatingly, shaking his head and some of the water droplets that collect on the rim of his hat, “I was in my twenties. Young and stupid, especially while in love... Thought we could just ignore how it wasn’t gonna work just for the fact we wanted to be together. That denial, ya know...”

You’re not sure how to feel about Arthur’s admission to you as you set your bowl of the fresh rabbit down onto your legs, “What happened?”

“Reality happened,” he pulls his rabbit off of the cooking grate and sets it down into his own bowl, sighing, “Her daddy hated me for what I was, and she, well, she wanted me to be somethin’ different. Somethin’ other than some dumb outlaw... And her... She was a high society woman... She had expectations I could never meet, no matter how much I wanted to...” he rips at his cooked rabbit then, his broad shoulders drawing in tightly, “We were destined for nothin’ from the start, but that didn’t stop me from askin’, and it didn’t stop her from sayin’ yes...”

“Did you love her still, despite that?”

Your question catches him, and he looks up to you, eyes a bit wide at your words. But then, his face pinches and his worn scowl appears like the telltale flash of lightning before the thunder roars up above.

“Love it’s... It’s a complicated feelin’. Ain’t no simple black or white thing, like bein’ good or evil... It simply is what it is... The two of us, we loved once n’ true, but it just wasn’t meant to be,” he sighs, his shoulder falling as he whispers, “Sometimes, that’s how it works. Lovin’ someone. You can do anythin’, give everythin’... and sometimes... your all isn’t enough.”

He looks towards the fire, taking a wet stick and prodding at the burning logs aimlessly. You see his pain then, and you feel for him at that moment. Despite the years since past, it is obvious that the man still hurts. Still aches.

They say time heals all wounds, and it is true that is does. But, sometimes, certain wounds can take a lifetime to heal.

You scoot closer to Arthur then, and you place a cautious hand on his wrist.

His skin feels warm against your own, so different in comparison to the chill in the air that colors his exhale of surprise white as he looks to you. Your heart skips a little in your chest, picking up in tempo just as the once steady tapping under Arthur’s skin does as the pad of your thumb rests against it. The rain falls steadily, and the icy droplets collect on your skin, and you look down to where they mold together until they fall to the earth as one.

“Love just ain’t about loss, or hurt,” you tell him, “It ain’t always perfect. It ain’t always true. But... It’s one of the purer human emotions, in my mind... The way two people can feel like one together. That they are somethin’ more because of the other... It’s human nature to love, Arthur, just as it is to feel pain, and heartbreak... And it’s all somethin’ only we can feel.”

Chancing a glance back up at the man, your voice is as timid as the sound of rainfall misting the trees around you.

“My papa used to say that to know about the good in life, you have to know the bad... Like night n’ day, or bein’ cold or warm... You can’t truly know one without the other...” you look back down to your hand on top of his own, the corner of your mouth ticking up fondly as your throat tightens at the memory, “ _You can’t have flowers without a little rain,_ is what he liked to say...”

Your eyes catch on Arthur’s hand then as it moves, slowly wrapping around yours, his fingers lacing over your own and giving a light squeeze. Moving your gaze as he does his fingers around your own, your eyes lock onto his once more, and you swallow as Arthur eyes with you with some expression you cannot pin.

His eyes are soft on you, slightly narrowed as they study you, and your cheeks heat as his slightly chapped lips part, and that drawl of his rumbles like the thunder in the distance.

“Your father was a wise man. A good man,” he tells you sincerely.

“You never even met him,” you point out with a small laugh, but it is far from entirely jovial as tears threaten to fall at Arthur’s sincerity.

“I just had to know his daughter,” he murmurs.

The grin that stretches your lips is shaky with emotion as you look to Arthur, eyes stinging as he allows you this moment of vulnerability with him.

“T-Thank you...” sniffling, you wipe at your eyes with your free hand, “S-Sorry.”

“Never apologize for cryin’ on me,” he assures you, rubbing a thumb along the wet back of your hand in his own, “Especially over somethin’ worth cryin’ about...”

Breathing in sharply, the inhale almost catching in your throat as you hum, “I just... I just miss him... How things used to be with him around... And now... With my mom...”

“It’s a lot,” he comments, and then, he pauses, seeming to think about what he wants to say before he quietly calls to you, “Wolf?”

You pinch your brows then, regarding the outlaw as he dips his head low, eyeing the sodden ground.

“I... I wanted to ask, before anythin’ else, but...” Arthur seems a bit hesitant, and he sighs, “Your mother, the Black Belle... I wanted to know if you were actually okay with seekin’ her out...”

The slight shift in topics has you pause, and you slip your hand out of Arthur’s then.

The cowboy watches you warily, especially as you go to your satchel, once more removing the photo that Theodore had given you both back in Valentine.

You stare at her photo, and you glare. You glare at the carbine draping her shoulders, at the way her eyes crinkle as she grins. Around her neck is a small necklace, a pendant of sorts you can’t make out, but your eyes catch on the way her one hand comes up to it, almost cradling subconsciously as she poses for the camera.

She looks older than what you remember, with a few new lines on her face, and some of her hair beginning to gray from the way it discolors from the rest.

It speaks of a time in her life you had no idea of existing, until now.

“I don’t know if we can find her,” you admit, voice steeling as you set your mother’s portrait down onto your lap, “But I have to try... I have to know if she’s really out there...”

“I don’t fault you for that, Wolf, I just wanted to know— . . .” he trails off for a moment, and then, he finally bites the bullet as he locks eyes with you, “I wanted to know if you are ready for whatever you may find.”

Looking down back at the picture of your mother, to a life you didn’t know she had until just a day before, your throat grows tight as you swallow, and your fingers nearly crease the edge of the photo as they clench.

“I already found out she was alive when I thought she was dead for almost my whole life,” you hiss lowly, your ire replacing your sorrow at that moment, and in turn, your defeat with determination, “I figure there’s not much worse than that.”

“I don’t reckon there is,” Arthur mumbles, and he looks back out over to the fire as it crackles, gorging itself on the logs of wood until they are nothing more than charred ash.

 

**\---**

_You hide under the bed, your palm stinging much like your eyes as your father holds you against him under the bed, the sounds of gunfire deafening from the rain of lead outside of your cabin._

_You clutch at your father, your cries muffled against his hand as the window by the sink breaks from a bullet, the whizz of it passing over you both only ending as the bullet lodges into the wall, lodging itself into the wood and causing splinters to cascade down onto the floor as you hear mean shout outside._

_“I want that bitch dead bef—” a man roars, and you hear the distinct sound of your mother’s gun firing, cutting the man off before he can finish speaking._

_Your dad whispers into your ear, small comforts that offer none at all as the gunfire continues, and you cry against him._

_“Black Belle!” one of the men shouts, “It’s pointless! You either come with us, or we drag your body back! It’s your choice, but either way, you’re going back to Bron—”_

_Another shot cuts this man off, and it is followed in quick succession by a few more._

_And then, silence._

_The door to your cabin crashes open, and you see the boots of the person who enters._

_“W-William? Wolf?”_

_It’s your mother, and you feel the tension in your father’s body lessen as he calls back to her._

_“J-Josephine—”_

_You see her carbine fall to the floor, the black gun with the orchid carvings landing on the floorboards as your mother drops to her knees, eyeing you both with the most fear you have ever seen her carry._

_“Are you both alright?”_

_“Shaken, but fine. But Wolf, she’s—” your father starts to say, before you rip yourself off of him, “Wolf!”_

_You crawl out from under the bed, your mess a face of tears as you weep openly, going and gripping onto your mother who immediately grips onto you. You feel her take a shuddering breath, and you press your face into her dress, unaware of how her sleeves are no longer a pale white, but a deep, dark red._

_“Josephine,” your father comes out from under the bed, and he grips onto you both, “How did they—”_

_“ **I don’t know** ,” your mother hisses, and you feel tears of her own fall against your forehead while she pulls back, her lashes clumping together just as her fingers do on your dress, “Wolf, I’m so sorry.” _

_“M-Mama,” you cry, and the way your mother’s face pulls up in what looks like agony hurts more than your raw palm ever could._

_“Josephine, what are we goin’ to do?”_

_Your mother lets go of you then, and she looks to her husband, and she lets out a singular sob, coming close to him until they are kneeling across from one another. You watch blurrily as she pulls him close, pressing a kiss onto the man’s lips. He brings a hand up to the side of her face for the brief time that it lasts, and his palm stays against her flushed cheek as they press their foreheads together._

_Your mother weeps, breaths catching as she hiccups, her chest heaving as her tears spatters on the floor, joining the shards of glass that have broken just as the façade of peace your lives had carried._

_“W-William,” she tells him then, leaning back enough to where her red eyes lock onto his, and his face draws up as she touches him back, fingers tracing the coiled features to commit them to memory, “I... I can’t run from this.”_

_“My belle, I know you can’t. We never could,” he whispers to her, beginning to tear up himself, “But what about Wolf? What are you—”_

_“She can’t run from this either,” your mother shakes her head, practically having to rip herself away from her husband, “Not with me.”_

_Your father’s eyes widen, and the way his voice hollows stings like the scrape on your hand._

_“Josephine... What... What are you doing?”_

_You watch as your mother grabs onto her gun, strapping it over her shoulder and looking as though, despite the strength she tries to convey, is about to fall apart in that very moment. Especially as she looks to you, and her lips quiver with a sob she will not cry as she swallows thickly, stepping away from you both._

_“Josephine...” your father’s voice grows little by little, both in volume and desperation as your mother does not answer, “Josephine, for the love of God, **please—** ” _

_“If they found me, then they will follow me,” your mother says with almost no emotion in her voice as her back faces you both, “I can’t take Wolf with me, and she can’t be left behind... And me... I’m the one they’re after anyway—”_

_In a rush of movement, your father stands, and he grabs onto your bothers wrist as she grabs ahold of the white canvas bag that she always kept packed. You never knew why. Not until now, not until you could see the pain in her eyes with what she has decided to do._

_“William,” she whispers, taking her free hand to cup her husband’s face once more, “There is nothin’ I can do to stop this... This... This has always been somethin’ we knew was comin’, one day or another...” her bottom lip trembles, and a few fresh tears work their way down her face, “I’m just grateful for all the days I shouldn’t have gotten with you both.”_

_“Please—” you father pleads brokenly, voice wrecked and crackling with despair as he places his hand over your mother’s as she cradles his cheek, “Please, don’t leave us—”_

_“I love you, William. I always have... You... You’re the only man who ever believed in me, who I ever believed in,” she tells him, and she presses another kiss to his lips, fractions of affection she can barely afford, like gasps of breath as you find yourself drowning, “Take care of our daughter... G-Give her life I never could.”_

_“J— Jo—”_

_Your father is unable to speak as your mother pulls away, crying as she grabs ahold of her bag, taking it with her as she finally approaches you._

_From behind her, your father falls apart, openly crying as she kneels down to you._

_“H-Hey, me fleur...”_

_“Mama,” you grab out to her, and she once again grabs onto you, her arms wrapping tightly with the wish to never let go, but knowing of the reality that lies ahead._

_“Oh, Wolf,” she cries, running a hand through your knotted hair and laughing in a way that speaks of nothing less than utter heartbreak, “You better be good for your Papa... Listen to him, l-love him as much as he loves you,” she pulls back enough to press a chaste kiss against your forehead, and you grip onto her, hoping it would be enough._

_“Mama, where are you going?” you ask, looking at her then._

_“Wherever I need to so I can keep you safe,” her smile is tainted with agony, and she pulls one more leaf from your hair, gripping onto it and leaning back._

_“Can I go with you?”_

_The question breaks her, and all she is able to do is shake her head._

_Frowning, you shake your own as your father comes to you, grabbing ahold of you as your mother stands up to leave, making sure to grab her carbine._

_“M-Mama?”_

_“I— I have to leave now, Wolf,” she takes a stuttered step away from you both, almost shell-shocked as she begins to accept what she is doing, “I have to go...”_

_“No! Mama!”_

_Pushing against your father’s arms, you scream, writhing and fighting against him as your mother turns, face paled and breaths catching. You see her chest heave as she rushes out of the door, it mirrors the way your father shuts down at your back as you fight against the inevitable._

_“M-Mama!”_

_She goes to her horse, throwing her carbine strap across her shoulder before hopping onto your father’s grullo dun Mustang. She isn’t reacting to your cries as she fixes her bag to its saddle, and spurs the stallion until she begins to head down the trail from your house, disappearing into the depths of the trees and out of your blurred sight._

_“ **Mama**!”_

 

**\---**

The sound of D’or’s hooves on road below is a calming rhythm as you ride beside Arthur, both of your horses walking as the man looks at his map.

Already, as you have headed further east in the direction of Theodore’s last known location of your mother, Bluewater Marsh, the land has begun to shift much like your disposition the closer and closer you get to the swamps of Lemoyne. The trees have gone from the pines and oaks of the Heartlands to willows that weep and cypress trees that emerge from the dark, murky pools that begin to litter the land. The air, once cool and chipper from the proximity to the mountains, has grown as humid as it is hot, cloying at your skin and making you feel almost damp as you look to Arthur from under the brim of your hat, you face covered in a sheen of sweat.

The outlaw isn’t fairing much better, his dark brown everyday shirt clinging to his chest and from where he’s done the buttons down as much as he can. As you look over to him, the sun catches on the glint of the sweat glistening along his collar, his lips parted in a curse as his Walker shakes out its hair as he studies his map.

“I didn’t miss the damn heat,” he tells you, grumbling as he takes his map and folds it back up, “At least in the cold, you can manage it a few ways. Heat, ya just suffer.”

“We still goin’ the right way?”

Glancing to you, Arthur’s brow pinches as his eyes land on you, and you look away, eyes set on the road ahead as you adjust D’or’s reins in your hands.

“Yeah... We’re about to come up on a small town by the name of Pleasance right now, I think... Up here on our left...”

Your eyes shift, looking to where there is a break in the trees, and you see the rundown buildings. Vines cover their sides and boards their windows. You see the white paint marking them, spelling out some message as you spur D’or into a light trot.

“Seems abandoned... Don’t think anyone here could help us...”

As you come up closer, Arthur squints taking in the writing on the barn doors, “Plague, it says. Huh.”

“How much farther to Bluewater Marsh?”

The look Arthur sends to you is a mixture of both concern and something else you cannot name, and he pinches his brow, gesturing a hand to you, “What’s goin’ on with you? You’ve been doin’ nothin’ but pushin’ for us to get there.”

“I’m not in the mood to focus on anythin’ other than findin’ Black Belle,” you tell him, voice a little short as you push ahead, spurring D’or into a light gallop.

“Well, that I can tell!” Arthur catches up a second later, his Walker now keeping pace with D’or, “Listen, I get that it’s a pretty big thing, but... You’re just worryin’ me is all.”

“You don’t have to worry,” you quip, and you grip D’or’s reins tighter, “Now, is there anywhere else we could stop and see about her possibly comin’ through?”

Arthur looks like he wants to push the issue further, but with the look in your eyes, he relents, allowing it to slip past as he considers your next course of action.

“Woman like her would lay low. ‘Bout as low as she could... Figure she’s gotta keep herself away from big towns like Saint Denis or Rhodes, try and visit some smaller ones or someplace where she can get what she needs without drawin’ too much attention to herself...” Arthur rubs at his chin with one hand, scratching at his ever-growing beard and clicking his tongue, “There’s a small little fishin’ shop in an area there, in Lagras. It’s directly south of Bluewater Marsh. She could go there for supplies and the like.”

“Good. We’ll start there.”

You don’t hesitate, spurring D’or even further.

Arthur keeps pace, looking at you warily as you ride forth. You can tell the outlaw is looking at you as though you’ve grown a second head as you follow the road signs to Lagras, your mind occupied with all the doubts and anger that you feel as you head into the heart of the swamps.

Soon, the mossy cypress trees part to show a small grouping of houses placed together, and you slow D’or, looking back to Arthur in question.

“Is this the place?”

“Should be... Been here once before, years ago... Ain’t changed much...”

Nodding, you trot D’or into the small alcove of civilization, or an attempt thereof. The folk eye you as you come in, heading to where a small sign advertising fishing supplies catches your eye.

The rumble of the alligators that prowl the waters is almost as telling as the sound of the ground shifting under your boots as you dismount from D’or. The black woman standing on the porch of the shop smiles at you as Arthur follows your lead, coming up from behind you as you approach the shop.

“Lookin’ to get some fishin’ supplies?” she asks you, the wrinkles around her face as soft as her voice as she grins, “I just got some fresh crawdads in, caught just this mornin’!”

“I ain’t lookin’ to fish, but... I was actually lookin’ for a woman,” you start, and as the lady tilts her head at you, her face drawing up in confusion, you elaborate, “Last I heard, she was in Bluewater Marsh. Older, may be wearing just black, but she’s got a carbine on her. Black, orchid carvings?”

The lady hums, going to see on the ancient looking chair in the corner of the porch then, her worn hands straightening out her dull apron across her lap, “Think I’d remember a gun like that, if I’d seen it... Now as for an older woman, I don’t have too many come through. Women usually ain’t the ones ridin’ on the road, or at least, they sure ain’t stoppin’ here if they do... Most women don’t fish, either...”

“Afraid that doesn’t help me much,” you frown, “Do you know anythin’ at all, or am I just wastin’ my time here?”

Raising a brow at that, she sighs, “I don’t deal with guns, but my brother, Thomas, he works that side of things when it comes to that gun of hers. I’d ask him if you can.”

Nodding, you ask, “Any idea where we can find him?”

“He’s currently a little ways down there,” the woman points down with her finger, down in the direction of the swampy banks, “He’s workin’ his crawfish traps right now, shouldn’t be out too far on ya.”

“Thank you.”

“Welcome,” she says a little curtly, eyeing you somewhat as you depart.

You and Arthur head that way, with you taking the lead and working through the muck as mosquitoes and gnats hum and hover around you in the heat. The air is heavy with the scent of stagnant, musky water as you trudge through, passing through the reeds and stalks of overgrown grass as Arthur comes up beside you.

“Hey,” he starts, his hand pushing away some of the branches that try to block his way as he walks beside you then, “You’re bein’ strange about all this.”

“Arthur, not now.”

“Now is a better time than any to talk about it,” he tells you as you both slow to a stop, and he looks to you then, “You ain’t actin’ like yourself, Wolf.”

Getting a bit short, you huff, looking further down the loose and moss-covered banks of the swamps, “Listen, I’m just tryin’ to get a move on with this.”

“I get that you want to find her, I really do. But you gotta get your head out of this with the way it’s stuck,” he murmurs to you, and you glance at him from the corner of your eye, “This side of the country... It’s dangerous. It ain’t a place you wanna lose your head in.”

The setting sun catches on Arthur then, and you swallow as his gaze softens on you.

“Why did you offer to help me?” you ask.

Arthur is caught off guard by the question, and he makes a face as you turn back to face him. You take a step closer, narrowing your eyes on him and pursing your lips as you lightly glare.

“I wouldn’t even ride by myself through here,” he whispers to you, brows pinching, “And you wanted to rush down here as soon as you looked at that picture... That’s all you’ve cared about. Wantin’ to know why things happened the way they did... I’m not sayin’ it’s unwarranted, wantin’ to know, but you can’t be blinded by your desire for answers to overlook the dangers of seekin’ ‘em out... Especially with somethin’ like this. You can easily get in over your head.”

Pulling back lightly, your lips twinge as you murmur, “So you’re here to pretty much babysit me?”

“Wolf, it ain’t like that...”

“Then what’s it like?” you jab a finger lightly at Arthur’s chest, “You’ve doubted me since the very beginnin’. You’ve told me I couldn’t do things since the start. All you have ever done is try to keep me from doin’ the same things you do.”

“But I’ve been doin’ them all my life,” he points out, a bit of irritation lining his words, “You haven’t.”

“I spent my whole goddamn life thinkin’ my mother was dead. She wasn’t.”

Arthur quiets at your words, his lips pressing tightly together.

Glaring at him, you growl, “I spent my entire life bein’ lied to. Bein’ sheltered and suffocated by people who never believed in me as I believed in them,” you spit, closing in on Arthur until your faces are mere inches apart, “Doesn’t matter what we were or what we are, Arthur. Not when things themselves have changed. We either adapt, or we get left behind in the past.”

Before Arthur can rebuke your words, you grab your carbine, flexing it around your shoulder from where it was strapped, and you quickly fire past the outlaw and down close to his feet.

He stands there, eyes widening as he jumps back, pivoting to where your bullet struck.

There, on the ground a few inches away from his feet, is now the fresh corpse of a massive Cottonmouth, half of its head torn apart from the bullet you fired into it. One of its fangs glistens, wet with its potent venom as its blood pools into the sodden bank below.

He’s a bit shaken, breathing out as he takes in what just happened, eyes moving from the dead serpent to you. His pupils are blown as his chest heaves as you fix your carbine back over your shoulder, your face impassive as you stand before him.

“You don’t need to doubt me anymore, Arthur,” you tell him softly, pivoting away, “Either you’re with me, or you’re not.”

The outlaw is wordless behind you as you continue up the way, leaving him behind to stew in your words and their implications.

 

**\---**

_"Wolf!”_

_You jerk, the butt of your father’s repeater slipping from where you positioned it against your shoulder as the man rushes forth, eyes wide with panic as he grabs ahold of his gun._

_“P-Papa, I was just—”_

_“You know better!” your father rips his repeater from your hands, staring at where you have been pelting the trunk of the tree across from you with the few bullets you managed to load into the gun, “Jesus...”_

_Tearing up then, you shake, especially as your father turns to you, his expression of disappointment and offense all but crippling you._

_“I’m s-sorry, Papa...”_

_“I told you not to touch this,” he seethes, and he runs a hand over his face, his hair already looking grayer than your remember, his face far more wrinkled as he walks up to the tree, his hand now running over where the bark was split apart from the round you shot into it._

_You come up beside him then, face red and tears, “Papa, I just want to learn—”_

_“ **No** ,” he grits out, and a new emotion timbers his voice, causing his throat to tighten and his words to wobble as he looks to you, “You’re only sixteen, Wolf... You’re just a kid. You have no business doin’ this!” _

_Sniffling, you attempt to explain yourself, “But you... You’ll need my help... Maybe not today, but... one day.”_

_“I’ll have to be on my deathbed before you ever pick up a gun,” he snaps._

_The words sting. Deeply they dig, gorging you so far that you physically wince at their assault._

_Your father notices then his misstep, reaching a hand out to you as his face draws up into a scowl._

_“Wolf, I'm sorry, I didn’t mean—”_

_“I just want to learn so do somethin’!” you yell, stepping away from your father then and smacking his hand away, “All you do is keep me locked up in that stupid damn cabin, tellin’ me that I can’t live my life! Everyone else, they get to do whatever they want! And you— y-you won’t even let me help you!”_

_Without hesitating, you grab his repeater._

_“Wolf!”_

_You take the gun, tossing it and throwing it against the torn up tree with as much force as you could manage. The metal of the gun, a poor-quality iron, creaks ominously, the barrel of it bending as it hits the tree. Your father shouts, going to grab the gun as you stumble backward, your vision blurring as you cry._

_“W-Wolf—”_

_“I hate it here! I hate you!” you scream, and like your tears, you run, turning away._

_Your father watches as you leave, his damaged repeater held in his hands as you tear through the woods._

_“Wolf!” he calls after you again, but you ignore him._

_Stumbling through the trees, you brace each trunk you nearly barrel into with your hands, your feet as unstable on the forest floor as your gasping breaths as you cry._

_You’re not sure how far you get, but your foot catches on a root, and your hand needlessly tries to stop your fall, getting scrapped up as you fall onto the ground._

_All of your breath is knocked out of you, and the shrill gasp you take in as you continue to weep is broken and stuttered, and you bring your palm up into the light._

_You have to blink some, with the stark fractures of sunlight working their way down through the leaves, but eventually, your eyes adjust, allowing you to see where you have scraped the first few layers of skin away from your palm._

_You breathe roughly, letting your head fall back against the ground as you hear something else come rushing through the trees._

_“Wolf!”_

_Your father drops to his knees, picking you up as you bawl, pulling you close as he sheds tears of his own as he pulls you against his chest._

_“Are you okay?” he takes your hand within his own, looking and see how your hand is, and his face sours._

_It’s a sore reminder of a day long since passed, and a pain never since alleviated_

_Cradling your hand then, his tears flowing openly then as he looks to you, his heartbreak as plain on his face as the day he told you your mother wasn’t coming back._

_“W-Wolf, I’m so sorry,” he cries into your hair, his arms wrapped around you as your good hand links over his wrist, holding back onto him just as tightly, “I’m so sorry...”_

_You both lay there, wrapped around each other as the birds sing overhead, their melodies drowning out the sounds of you both as you hold onto one another, needing nothing more in the world._

 

**\---**

“ _I asked that gal to give me some, mhm! Mhm!”_

The sounds of the song the man sings catches your attention, and you come up from behind him, watching as he pulls one of his crawfish traps out of the murky green waters.

“ _I asked that gal to give me some, she says wait till the taters is done! Mhm, mhm!”_

You come up from behind the man then, and you quirk a brow at him.

“Are you Thomas?”

The man jumps, turning and holding onto his straw hat as it nearly falls off his head. Your eyes lock onto his, and yours widen a bit at how one of his is a ghostly white, and its socket is misshapen from the scar that runs on the side of his face.

He comes out of the water, the bottoms of his distressed overalls wet from the musky swamp water as he juts his bottom lip, his brows drawn together in suspicion.

“Well, depends on who’s askin’!”

“I am,” you say then, hearing the brush behind you move as someone else approaches, “Your sister sent me your way— the one that runs the bait shop?”

He laughs then, a loud, belly deep sound as he flashes the vacancies in his smile as he gives you as much of a toothy grin as he can manage, “Ah, Mrs. Ruth! Why yes, what do I owe the pleasure, ma’am?”

“She told me that you’re the best person to ask when it comes to who I’m lookin’ for,” you start as Arthur stops at your side, his mouth closed tightly as Thomas nods, “It’s an older lady, had a special carbine. Black, with orchid carvings.”

The Creole fisherman lights up, “Oh, you’re speakin’ of Miss Josephine!” then, his eyes narrow as his face draws up on itself, “Say, you look a little like her, yaself...”

Ignoring his comment, you push further, “Know where I can find her?”

“Think so,” he mutters, rubbing at his chin, “She ain’t come ‘round here in some days, but she mentioned that she was stayin’ local... Don’t think she took to town though. She don’t like society.”

At your side, Arthur huffs under his breath, “Makes two of us...”

“She wasn’t exactly sleepin’ or livin’ rough, though. Think she took up in some former moonshine spot them Braithwaites had, a decent sized cabin of sorts... It’s a little further north from the border of Bayou Nwa. Had her mention to me that she had to clear ‘em out when she first bought ammo from me about two months ago, and that’s right when they ended up gettin' cleared from the place, I heard. They ain’t been back since, which rarely happens.”

Looking to Arthur, you glance at his satchel, “Think you can map that out?”

“Yeah...”

“Say, you plan on seein’ her?”

You regard Thomas then, your voice quiet, “We might be payin’ her a visit, yes...”

“Well, be careful,” he warns, walking back over to the wire trap that he had pulled and shaking the poor crawfish that crawled into it around, “She don’t seem like a woman you wanna mess much wit’. She ‘bout cleared me out of ammo, and ain’t nobody buyin’ that much unless they usin’ it.”

“Thanks for the word of warning,” you murmur, and you turn with Arthur hot on your tail.

“Good luck! And if y’all ever need anythin’, just let me an’ Mrs. Ruth now! We take care of ya down here!”

Humming, you continue heading back towards where you left D’or, your mind working away at the information Thomas gave to you both.

Glancing back over your shoulder, you take note of Arthur’s conflicted expression, and you sigh, “What now?”

“Nothin’,” he murmurs, not rising to your poking as you come back into the main part of their small town, finding D’or waiting for you patiently right where you left her.

“What? No tryin’ to tell me anythin’? No tryin’ to convince me?”

“I learned a long time ago that once you’re set on somethin’, there ain’t nothin’ I can do to change your mind,” Arthur tells you bluntly as he whistles for his Walker, the colt responding and moving forward, just as D’or does then.

Snorting, you reach the Trotter and glance at Arthur as he begins to mount onto his horse.

“So you aren’t gonna push anymore?”

“No. Not like I was,” he tells you mutely as you saddle up on the mare below you, “I ain’t gonna stop worryin’, and I ain’t gonna stand by if you need help, but...” pausing, the outlaw sighs, adjusting his hat on his head then, “I ain’t gonna stop you or stand in your way no more, either.”

Regarding him some, you both begin to guide your horses out of the heart of Lagras and back out onto the main road, “Thank you...”

It isn’t until you’re a bit further out onto the main road that Arthur speaks up again.

“I... I want you to know, Wolf... I always believed in you.”

Your lips part a bit in surprise, and when you look to him, Arthur pointedly looks at the road ahead, unable to face you in light of his admission.

He looks down some, his hands tightening on the reins of his Walker as he makes a small noise of defeat.

“You... You’ve done well, comin’ into this. Far better than I ever expected...” he breathes out, his shoulders falling some, “I just want you to know, you’re one of the few people I trust my back with when we ride together.”

Blinking, you feel your lips twitch in a light smile, and you shake your head as Arthur glances at you.

“That snake really rattled ya, huh?”

Frowning, he grumbles, “Wolf, I’m bein’ serious...”

“I know,” you murmur, meeting his green irises then, “But it just feels odd when one of us isn’t bein’ a smartass.”

That gets a chuckle out of him, and you feel some sense of victory at the slight smile that graces his lips, “Guess you’re right ‘bout that.”

“Course I am,” you pause then, your voice growing a bit quieter as you follow the signs guiding you both towards Bluewater Marsh, “But, in all seriousness... I think you’re the only thing in my life I can trust now.”

At those words, Arthur quiets, his lips and shoulders tensing with the weight of your admission.

You both ride on in silence, side by side.

 

**\---**

_You did not tell your father about his repeater, just as you didn’t tell him about the boy in Blackwater._

_Your father has no idea you snuck into town, having only been told that you were going to be hunting dinner for you both in the nearby woods._

_He was growing a little more trusting every day, ever since that fateful moment when you were sixteen and he decided to sit down and talk with you._

_He worried for you. Feared for you. You were all he had left of your mother, and you were all he had left in the world. You meant more to him than gold could ever be worth, and you were irreplaceable._

_Your father’s fear always held you back, but he was learning to get better. To trust you more._

_He had no idea that you were sneaking into town regularly now, especially as he would take jobs nearby, promising that he would be back soon. This time, with him going to Quaker’s Cove, right down the way from town, you got excited, hitting the road on D’or as soon as he was out of sight._

_He didn’t know about the boy because you didn’t want him to._

_Especially because you were on the hunt to find him, to thank him for saving you._

_As you rode forth on D’or, the young mare enjoying the stretch to her legs as you spurred her in the direction of town, your mind couldn’t help but think of him._

_What a strange boy he was... He couldn’t get out of your mind, with those piercing eyes of his, that smile that made it feel as though you had swallowed butterflies. Your mind was always in a loop, thinking of how he came in and saved you, fighting off those other boys and looking to you and being the first person to look at you as though you were really there._

_As you slow D’or, your eyes instantly begin searching the streets._

_It had been a week or two since the incident on the way back from the gunsmith, and so far, there wasn’t luck on your part for finding this mysterious boy. You tried asking around, tried going back to where he saved you, but there was nothing._

_He was like a ghost, a vestige of someone who was able to slip through your fingers as though he was never truly there to begin with. A veil dancing in the wind, playing tricks on your mind._

_You sigh as you come up upon the bank, looking to where a few men in suits are discussing the plans for the future town hall that is to be built across from it. You huff, thinking about all the trouble it would only bring as something catches your eye._

_There, on the stairs of the gazebo, is a pair of boots._

_You only see the bottoms, and you lean forward, wondering why on earth someone would be lying on their back underneath it. Smoke billows, carried by the sluggish wind out past the pair of shoes, and you slow D’or down, coming up to a hitching post as one of those fancy aristocrats takes notice as well, and approaches the gazebo._

_The boy sits up, and to your surprise, it’s **him**. _

_Your heart picks up a bit in tempo as you finish tying D’or’s reins._

_“Boy! There’s a better place for you to lounge and smoke than here,” the man snarks, glaring down at the person lying there as you begin to walk up, “You’re not even supposed to be here anyway—”_

_“He was just waitin’ for me, sir.”_

_Both the man and the boy look to you as you approach, a small smile working on your lips as the older man seems to deflate some._

_The boy, however, seemingly lights up, smiling as he recognizes you and goes to stand, passing the man then to come up to you with a sly grin._

_“We’ll be on our way, mister!” the boy promises as he reaches you._

_“Kids,” he says loathsomely, “Next time, meet at the theater or something!”_

_Snickering to each other as you walk away, the boy regards you then, and you feel your cheeks heat under his attention._

_“My my, look what turned up,” you reach D’or then, and he stops, looking you up and down, “Say, I didn’t think I was gonna see you again after that day... You still doin’ alright?”_

_“Just fine,” you breathe, your cheeks almost feeling numb with how they bunch with your smile, “Glad I came across you then. Looks like you would’ve gotten in trouble.”_

_Taking his cigarette that he had, the boy takes a pull, shaking his head and replying as he exhales smoke, “Nah... That man ain’t shit, if you can pardon my French.”_

_You giggle, “I know some French, and I can tell you, that isn’t exactly how it’s said over there.”_

_The boy’s eyes crinkle with humor as you go to pet D’or, and his attention moves to the gorgeous mare and whistles, “Fine horse for a fine girl such as you.”_

_“Thank you...” you say, flushing._

_The boy comes up, putting a hand on D’or’s face and petting her some as he glances in your direction, “You know... I never got to know your name... Mine’s Joseph.”_

_Pausing, you think of your father’s words. He was always insistent that you never share your name, first, last, or middle. Never trust strangers, never tell them anything about yourself._

_It wasn’t that you didn’t trust this boy, and it wasn’t like you always listened to your father’s instruction... But, at that moment, you decided to play it safe, just in case. At least until you got to know Joseph better._

_Looking over Joseph’s shoulder, you see the flowers that blossom around the gazebo, including a few orchids, their white petals adjusting with the wind that ruffles your hair._

_“Mine is Fleur,” you tell him, smiling lightly._

_“Hm. Never heard that one,” Joseph says, grinning._

_“It’s French.”_

_Chuckling, he nods, “Of course.”_

_Humming, Joseph considers what he’s to say as he takes a step away from you, looking towards the docks then._

_“Would you like to take a walk with me, Miss Fleur?”_

_Weighing the option, you look to him and the hand he holds out to you._

_The same hand he offered whenever he saved you in that alley from the other boys, while you huddled against the wall with no hope of being spared._

_Your lips quirk, and you wrap your fingers around his own._

_“Sure.”_

_You two talk as you approach the docks, and you look to Joseph then, your heart feeling as though it were among the clouds whenever you see him. He’s as radiant as the sun and just as warm as you reach the end of one of the docks._

_“You know, I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since that day, in the alley,” Joseph tells you then, “I’ve been comin’ back into town tryin’ to see if I could find you again...”_

_Laughing, you shake your head, “I’ve been the same way...”_

_Joseph’s face lights up at that, and he hums, “What a pair of fools we make, then...”_

_“I wouldn’t say fools,” you murmur, linking your hand within his, “Just... enraptured.”_

_“Now that’s not a word ya hear every day.”_

_You snicker, going to say something else when the moment is shattered by a shout from behind you._

_“Hey, that’s the bastard who beat Tommy and Nick!”_

_You and Joseph turn to see those boys from before at the end of the dock, looking mighty angry and like vultures who would like to taste fresh meat for the first time. You let out a shaky breath, and Joseph tenses, moving you behind him as he glares at the boys that close off the end of the dock, trapping you at its end._

_“And I’ll beat you son of bitches too if you don’t clear out!”_

_“Don’t think that’s gonna happen,” one of them hisses, and it's then that you see his black eye and swollen lip, “I’ve got a bit of a score to settle with you!”_

_Joseph rolls his neck and shoulders, his fists clenching at his sides as one of the boys approaches, his hands at the ready._

_“Guess I’ll just have to beat your ass a second time, then.”_

_The boy goes to swing at Joseph, but he dodges it completely, side-stepping the boy on the narrow space of the dock and clocking him in the side of his face._

_You have to move out of the way just in time for the boy to fall into the water. Joseph watches him fall in with a smirk, and you look over his shoulder to where one of the other boys gets his pocket knife out and approaches._

_“Joseph, look out!”_

_Joseph turns just as the boy swings, catching Joseph on the chin with his knife before Joseph is able to grab his wrist and twist it. The other boy lets out a cry of pain, and as the knife falls onto the dock and in between the wooden boards forming it, the shrill whistles of the policemen cut through the air._

_“Scatter!”_

_The rest of the boys run, including the one that Joseph shoves away with a decent hit._

_“Joseph!”_

_You run up to his side, taking in where his chin is gashed open in two places. Joseph curses, and he looks up to you as his chin drips crimson down into the murky waters below. You bring a hand up, your fingertips trying to assess the damage as Joseph grips onto your wrist._

_“Meet me back at the gazebo whenever you can,” he whispers to you._

_Before you can say anything else, Joseph sprints off once more, the law hot on his tail as he bobs and weaves amongst everyone there in a way that speaks of experience._

_And you’re left standing there, his blood growing tacky on your skin._

 

**\---**

“Hey, wait!”

You stare at the length of wire your boot almost crossed over, trying to follow its length to its origin as Arthur comes up from behind you. He almost steps onto it, but your hand stops him, fingers splaying across his chest and halting him right before his boot trips the wire.

You’re glad now that you and Arthur opted to leave the horses by the main road after choosing to continue on foot. There wouldn’t have been any way to have seen this otherwise.

“What is it?” he asks, voice soft as you drop your hand away, leaning down.

“Theodore warned us that she made traps,” tracking the placement of the wire, you carefully take a step over it, “Seems like we need to be careful from here on out... Watch where you step.”

Whistling lowly, Arthur crosses over the wire just as cautiously as you did, joining you on the other side and looking up to the shack you see a few yards away.

“Your mother is a piece of work.”

“So I’ve come to find,” you say with some ice lingering in your words, adding, “But it means we’re also in the right place.”

You notice the copper still under the house just as Arthur does, and he hums as you both slowly approach the shack.

Whispering, he jokes, “Think she’s been makin’ shine on her downtime?”

Rolling your eyes lightly, you fix your carbine, placing it at the ready in your hands as Arthur grabs his repeater from over his shoulder.

It’s a one-story cabin, by the looks of it, despite the way it has been raised up from the ground. Old and about abandoned is what it appears to be, with the way the grayed wood sags under its own weight and construction. The main part is on the top, with the deck raised a good eight feet above the dirt below. Underneath is where the moonshine still was stashed, with most of what was once an open space covered in loosening wooden boards in an attempt to cover the alcoholic escapades that occurred.

The chimney that erects from the sagging and uneven roof lets out steady puffs of smoke, and you swallow thickly at the faint sounds of someone moving inside, or within the lower section.

“She’s here,” you breathe, your heart beginning to race.

“Hey,” Arthur whispers back, and you both pause a moment to meet each other’s eyes, “Just take a deep breath... We’ll take this as we go.”

Nodding, you steel yourself and continue moving forward.

The grass crunches under both of your boots as you approach warily, your eyes searching the ground or the nearby vicinity as you come upon the cabin. Outside, by the stairs that lead up to the upper section, there is a horse. A black Thoroughbred by the looks of it.

Its tail sways leisurely, and it lifts its head as you approach, its mouth moving from where it was grazing on the nearby weeds growing at its hitching post.

“I take the top, you check the bottom,” you tell Arthur under your breath, already heading towards the steps, “We’ll know who finds her first.”

Nodding, Arthur takes in your orders. But before he complies to them, he places a hand on your arm, his expression sincere.

“Stay safe.”

“You too,” you murmur back.

The outlaw breaks off then, raising his repeater and walking around the corner as you take to the stairs.

You’re careful, taking each step slowly as to not vocally strain the wood as you ascend, your carbine also raised as you begin to reach the second level. The sounds of movement you heard are a bit louder now, coming without a doubt from inside the cabin.

Your heart picks up as you round to the door, and you aim the barrel of your carbine towards it as you brace yourself.

Breathe.

One...

Exhale.

Two...

Inhale.

Three—

The door crashes open after your foot meets it in a swift kick, and you swerve your gun left to aim towards the interior of the cabin as you peer inside.

There’s another crash at the opposite end of the cabin, and your eyes and gun move immediately to it, to where one of the lower cabinet doors was pushed open and a few packages of crackers were torn apart and emptied just as messily. Crumbs and bits of oatcakes scatter about the worn floorboards, and an inhuman screech fills the cabin as you see the cause of the commotion.

A possum screams at you, baring its tiny fangs as it ejects itself from the cabinet, its black and white face coated in crumbs and other remnants of its pillaged feast as it falls over onto the floor.

You curse as it goes to play dead, its poor chest rising and falling rapidly as you lower your carbine, a sinking feeling taking over you.

It’s too sour to be disappointment and too hurt to be anything like relief.

But then, as you hear a gun click at the side of your head, another feeling replaces it entirely.

You raise your hands slowly, your chest now moving much like the possum’s now as you turn timidly towards the gun that is aimed at you.

And when you do, your breath catches, and your heart all but stops.

Especially as the gun lowers, and a small, terrified whisper escapes the woman before you.

“ _Ma fleur?”_

 

**\---**

_You and Joseph meet up at the gazebo in Blackwater every few days._

_Joseph, he’s a gentleman without a doubt. Always asking you to walk with him, even though he always knows you will accept the offer. He also asks to hold your hand, and together, you walk to the dock, going to sit on the end with your feet dangling down in the water as you both talked until the sun set and turned the black waters below orange with the dying sunlight._

_It’s no different from now, as you swirl your foot about the water, causing it to swirl about as you lean your hands back onto the dock as you talk._

_“You know, I don’t think I ever met a girl as amazin’ or as pretty as you,” Joseph admits, and you glance over to him as he adds, “You just... you’ve enraptured me.”_

_“Enraptured?” you ask, voice soft and breathless as you stare at Joseph._

_“Yeah... I can’t get you out of my mind, Fleur. I think about you all the time, I wanna be with ya all the time,” he leans in closer, his pouty lips parting as he eyes your own, “I... I think it’s a bit forward of me to ask, but... could... could I—”_

_Joseph doesn’t get to finish, as you come close, pressing your mouths together._

_The kiss, it’s as messy as it is inexperienced, but it doesn’t quite matter to either of you. The way his warm lips feel against your own, with his fingers sliding from the nape of your neck to where they begin to move into your hair, cradling you closer as he kisses you._

_After a few moments, you pull apart, and your eyes meet one another as Joseph brings up a hand, his thumb tracing your reddened lips like he wants to commit them to memory._

_“Like I said... enraptured...”_

_You gently pull his hand away from your lips, and his eyes furrow lightly as you look to him as a wolf to the moon._

_“I want to be with you,” you breathe._

_Joseph’s eyes widen, and he exhales hotly as he moves closer to you, pressing your foreheads together._

_“I wanna be with you too...”_

_But there’s something there, something you can’t quite place. You pull back softly, eyeing him with some disappointment. Your fingers brush to where his chin is healing, those scabs as nasty as the growing disappointment in your chest._

_“But you can’t.”_

_“It’s not for the matter that I don’t want to. ‘Cause I do. I really, really do,” he breathes, and his hands move to you, “I’m... Things with me, they’re complicated. I ain’t from ‘round here, and I can’t stay, neither...”_

_“Then I’ll leave with you.”_

_His face falls some, and he shakes his head, “Now, Fleur, that can’t happen...”_

_“Why not?”_

_“’Cause I ain’t worth runnin’ for,” he tells you softly, and he presses a chaste kiss against your lips before putting space between you again, “I... I’m gonna be leavin’ soon... At the end of this week...”_

_Your eyes sting, and your throat feels like it’s in a vice as your voice trembles, “And you’re only tellin’ me this now?”_

_“I found out last night... We... there was somethin’ else that happened. Somethin’ else that I need to do. I can’t stay here afterward, despite as much as I want to...”_

_Growing desperate, you grip onto his suspenders, pulling him against you, “But you can stay here for now...”_

_“Yeah,” Joseph breathes, going to slot his lips against your own once more, “Just for now...”_

 

**\---**

“Mama?”

That damned carbine of hers lowers, and your eyes trace the black, engraved gun as she breathes out shakily, one of her hands going to remove her hat. You take her in, with her black attire and satchel until you’re able to meet her eyes.

The woman staring at you is much older than the faint memory you have of her. Her face is more wrinkled, and her hair has dulled, with more gray appearing within it than even the photo you had of her.

But that expression, the light in her eyes, it’s just the same as you remember, and it’s like your lungs collapse with the way she begins to tear up at the sight of you.

There’s a loud sound at the stairs, and your eyes shift to where you see Arthur rush up from behind your mother, his gun at the ready.

“Wolf, you alright?”

“I’m fine, Arthur,” you say as your mother’s brows pinch, and she goes to look behind her, “We... We just ran into each other...”

“Yeah, well she ran into me with the butt of her gun,” Arthur growls lightly, huffing as your mother smirks at him.

“You can lower yours...” you tell him.

The outlaw checks with you, only lowering his repeater until you give an affirming nod. Your mother notices this exchange, and her lips only quirk further as she looks between the two of you.

While she goes to hang her black hat up, she asks, “So, is this your husband?”

You pale as Arthur gapes, his mouth moving like a fish out of water as your cheeks heat.

“Well?” she prompts further, gesturing between you both with a hand.

“N-No, we ain’t married,” Arthur manages, and he refuses to look at you as he finally lowers his repeater completely.

“What are you then?”

“Friends,” you pointedly tell her, huffing lightly.

She laughs, going to the other end of her cabin and over to the stove, “Yes, daughter of mine. You’re just friends.”

You feel a bit of anger rise within you like the heat you feel appear in your cheeks, “I didn’t come here just to be ridiculed by you...”

At the stove, your mother removes the lid to her pot, and her hand moves to the satchel to remove a few bits of wrapped meat. The liquid inside boils, and it fills the room with the sweet aroma of herbs as you glare at her.

“I can garner why you’re really here...”

Arthur breathes out, coming to where a table is in the corner by where you stand. He takes one of the chairs there, sitting down and simply settling himself to watch the exchange.

“How did you find out?” she asks plainly, adding the meat to her stew and stirring it with her wooden spoon, “About me? About not bein’ dead?”

“A trapper who knew dad mentioned you. But not as my mom. But as a woman wanted for murder that dad ran off with,” your mother pauses from where she stirs her stew, and your teeth grit then, “It was hard to argue anythin’ when someone gave me a photo of the Black Belle, too.”

She removes the spoon from her stew and places the lid back onto the pot. Taking a step back, she regards you, those eyes of hers unwavering as she meets your fire with her cooled demeanor.

“How long have you known?” she asks.

“I found out two days ago.”

She frowns then, a bit confused, “Your father didn’t tell you?”

Your eyes narrow, and your voice threatens to break as you hiss, “He died before he could.”

Her face falls a little at that, and she takes a deep breath. To your side, Arthur is tense, watching you both closely.

“Oh...” your mother looks away then, and it’s at that moment some of your ire falls away.

She grips onto the counter tightly, and it’s then that you see her bring one shaky hand up to her face as she tries to console herself within that moment.

You look down to the floor, unsure of what to do or say with the woman you thought was dead only a few days prior.

You hear your mother take in a sharp, gasping breath, but she lets go of the counter, pulling herself together.

She doesn’t face you or Arthur, but rather goes into the cabinet, grabbing out a bottle of whiskey and pouring herself a glass.

“How long?”

“Few months,” you whisper back.

Setting bottle of whiskey down, she grabs her glass, taking it and knocking it back without hesitancy, and exhaling with a hiss as it burns down her throat.

When she does look to you, her eyes a little red, you can tell that she is holding back tears for the sake of your conversation.

“Why did you leave?”

She swallows, eyes not meeting yours as leans against the wall at her back, as though she needs the support as she murmurs her reply, “I had to... The bounty hunters... Those men... They managed to find me, once you were about five... They shot up the cabin, told me that even if I killed them, more would come... So I left.”

“To keep us safe...” you say.

“Believe me when I say that leaving you and your father was the hardest thing I ever did in my life,” she doesn’t hold back her tears then, and they run down her cheeks freely as she stares at you, bearing herself to your judgment in that very moment and not shying away, “I loved you both like nothing else... You... You were the only things I cared about, all that I had...”

“Well, I thought that all I had left was nothin’ when my father died,” you hiss, your own tears of hurt mirroring your mother’s, “But it turns out I buried him next to an empty grave.”

“Wolf, I _had_ to go! I had to lead those men away! If I didn’t go, they would’ve come back to that cabin and found you and your father, and I couldn’t let that happen...” she takes a step forward, and your nostrils flare with the way your chest heaves in anger, “You may hate me for it, and I do not blame you! I do not ask you to do anything _but_ hate me. But I want you to understand that I did not do this to hurt you.”

“Does it matter what that’s what happened anyway?”

Her lips press tightly, and she looks down to her face.

Arthur’s eyes are on you now as you go on.

“I spent my whole life bein’ lied to. Thinkin’ you died when I was young because that’s what I was told. Thinkin’ papa cried over you as he did because death left him as heartbroken as the whiskey left him drunk,” you seethe then, shaking with your anger, “And now, when I know, when I had to come and _find_ you, all you have to say is that you didn’t mean to hurt me when that’s all you managed to do?”

“I didn’t want to leave. I didn’t want to leave behind the man I loved, or the daughter we had together,” she pleads with you, “I wanted to go back, to be with you both, but... those men, they’re still after me.”

“Even now?”

“Of course they are... I... I’m not exactly innocent.”

Your voice drops, low, your eyes narrowing, “So I’ve heard...”

“There’s nothing that I can do now that can take back what happened, no matter how much I wish or want it to be different... Your father, he did what I couldn’t. And you, you became the woman I always knew you could be...”

“Funny. You didn’t have a part in that, did you?”

Your mother goes to open her mouth, but it falls closed, and she shakes her head.

“Wolf?”

“Arthur, now is _not_ the time—”

“Don’t think it matters much to them.”

You aim your glare in his direction as Arthur stands, looking out of the opened cabin door and to the men that line up their horses outside, their guns held at their sides then.

“Who the fuck are they?”

“Goddammit,” your mother curses and she pulls her carbine out from over her shoulder, glancing outside, “You both led them to me—”

“ _Who?”_ you reiterate with irritation.

“Bounty hunters,” she checks how much ammo her beloved carbine has as Arthur backs up, pulling from the view of the doorway, “You wanna know why I stayed away, here’s your answer.”

Arthur moves you both over more to the kitchen, and you both peer through the small window to where you see the bounty hunters finish coming together.

“Black Belle!” a man shouts, coming forward on his horse, “Fancy we’d find you here!”

“You best turn back and tell that bastard that he best stop wasting men!” she clicks her carbine, “Soon he won’t have anyone willing to come my way!”

“With the price on your head, even if you kill us, more’ll come! So it would be best if you just gave up now!”

“Only if I can try and kill that bastard again!”

“Fuckin’ get the bitch!”

You and Arthur have to drop down as the window shatters, bullets now getting fired in mass against the shack. You breathe roughly against the cabinet, your carbine held tightly in your hands as Arthur curses, ensuring his repeater was loaded as he glances to you.

“You told me not to worry,” he tells you, popping his repeater back together, “Don’t give me a reason to doubt you now.”

Your lips set into a thin line as you hear the wood siding of the building splinter, and you grip your carbine with an unfaltering resolve.

And together, you and Arthur stand in unison, guns aimed and firing.

 

**\---**

_Lying underneath one of the large willows outside of town on the banks of the lake, you lay against Joseph as his fingers run through your hair, the end of the day sluggish with the heat of summer, gold and hazy._

_He hums a small tune, the sound of it right against your ear from where it is against his chest._

_Today._

_Today is the last you can spend with him, as he has to leave once the sun finally sets._

_You spent every moment with him since before the sun rose, leaving your cabin while your father slept, and meeting him at the gazebo and staying at Joseph’s side until now, as the sun threatens to sink beyond the line of Flat Iron Lake._

_You don’t know how many times you’ve kissed him, how many times you’ve begged him to stay, but you know it’s for naught. He’s made it clear ever since he told you that day on the dock, his time here was finite._

_You’re not sure why it only made you want for more, knowing you could never have it. Yet, you still yearned. Still wished._

_From where you lay on him, you watch the water as it dances and shimmers, with it slowly turning the white caps a burnt shade of orange, and the depts of the lake an almost muted crimson. The sky is tinged as well, the thin lines of clouds that pass leisurely overhead move in tandem like the waters on the shore of the lake, like Joseph’s fingers through your hair._

_The leaves over you both shift in the breeze, whispering and humming to Joseph’s song, and it’s at that moment you wish that time could pause, that a singular moment could last forever._

_But as the bottom of the sun finally reaches the horizon, slipping down below and having the blues of twilight begin to seep into the sky, you know that forever is a concept that would remain foreign to you as Joseph sits up._

_“It’s time...” he murmurs to you._

_You’re unable to meet his eyes, and you mess with the buttons on his shirt, as you move with him, ”So it seems...”_

_“Fleur...”_

_Your eyes move up to his, and you feel his hand cup your cheek._

_“I’ll try and come back,” he promises._

_You lean into his palm, closing your eyes as you whisper, “Don’t make me wait long...”_

_“I won’t,” he tells you, pressing your lips together softly, as light as the pastels mixing together in the sky like the way you do with one another, “I’ll come back for you one day...”_

_He pulls away as the moon begins to come up over the trees in the distance, the stark white of it bringing light as soft as his hand as it leaves your face. The sun, it now dips below the horizon, the last of its warm light leaving the sky as Joseph pulls away._

_You only want to pull him back, to beg him to stay. But you know better._

_Like the sun and moon, one must leave so that the other may grace the sky._

_But, before Joseph steps away, he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a small, black jewelry box. Your eyes widen at the sight of it, and Joseph looks at you from under his lashes._

_“I... I got you somethin’. Somethin’ to keep, since you can’t keep me...”_

_He opens the box, revealing a small necklace. The silver metal shines in the moonlight, catching on it, refracting from where your eyes land on the pendant it carries._

_It is a flower, molded from the metal and far more beautiful than one that ever grew._

_Your eyes tear up as Joseph removes it, turning you lightly. He stands at your back, pulling your hair out of the way to slip the necklace onto you._

_The metal is cool where his fingers are warm, and your breath catches as he fixes its clasp into place, the metal flower coming to rest between the juts of your collarbone._

_Before he turns you, Joseph presses a chaste kiss against the start of your spine, causing you to shiver until he spins you around. Your foreheads press together, and he runs his hand through your hair one last time._

_“I love you...”_

_“I love you too,” you whisper, a tear slipping down your cheek._

_And, with his thumb, Joseph wipes it away as he steps back, looking pained as he heads over to his pale Saddler next to D’or._

_“Till then?” he asks, lingering somewhat as he saddles up._

_Grasping onto the pendant, you are only able to nod._

_Joseph smiles at you, somber as it is loving, and he turns his horse around, riding it away, leaving you under the tree, your heart as heavier than the pendant held between your fingers._

 

**\---**

“Goddammit!”

Your mother pulls back from the doorway, growling as she goes to reload, “I can’t get a proper shot!”

“We need someone down there takin’ out the ones we can’t see!” Arthur barks to you both as you fire alongside him, hitting one of the bounty hunters square in the skull, “If you all cover me, I can do it!”

“Are you wantin’ to die!?” you shout incredulously, dropping a man as he charges up on his horse, “You’ll get shot, Arthur!”

“Not with you two coverin’ me, I won’t,” he rumbles.

“Wolf, I don’t think we have much of a choice... While it’s cover, we can’t get everyone here from inside the cabin.”

“You think I don’t know that!?” you snap, having to drop back down to reload your carbine as you curse, working the bullets into your gun as you snip further, “Sorry if I don’t want you gettin' killed, Arthur!”

“I’ve gone up against a lot worse, trust me,” he tells you, dropping down beside you then, “But if we don’t knock these men out now, then we will pretty much be sittin’ ducks.”

“Shit, this is the last of the ammo I have,” your mother finishes reloading her gun, looking to you both, “Either we send you out and cover you, or we go ahead and write our wills with our blood.”

Hissing, you finish fixing your own carbine, and you move your eyes to lock in with Arthur’s.

“Fine. We’ll cover you. But if you get shot—”

“Then you’ll never let me live it down, I know,” Arthur sets a hand on your shoulder then, “I promise, I’ll be just fine with you two lookin’ over me.”

“Enough with talkin’, we gotta do this now!”

You glare at your mother but nod, “Okay... Come on!”

You and Arthur meet your mother by the door, and after firing a few shots to ensure that most of the men you could shoot were down, you and your mother advance first.

A few bullets whiz past you as you fire onto the men, missing once before you’re able to get a man in his shoulder before you are able to get him by the ear. He falls off of his horse, and you look behind Arthur as your mother shoots the last man at the side.

Turning to you both, your mother hisses, “There’s another gun, in a box underneath the house! Grab it!”

“Go!” you yell.

Arthur runs, passing between you both and quickly running down the stairs. Your heart races once he is out of sight, but then, both you and your mother come up to the railing, lowering yourselves and trying to drop whatever men you can see.

You can hear Arthur down below, and you fire right before you hear him break open the box your mother had mentioned. And after another moment, you hear him fire from underneath the house, the sound ringing out as he clears the men that ride up from the back.

“At the tree line!”

You look to where your mother has directed your attention, and it’s then that you see the approaching wagon.

“Arthur! We got trouble!”

“You both okay!?” he shouts, firing once more as you move your mother to go down the stairs as the wagon nears.

“They have a fuckin’ Gatling gun!”

Right as you pass the bottom of the stairs, the telltale sound of its flurry of bullets begins, and the ground in which you had just covered breaks apart with the impact, causing dirt to fly everywhere as you round the back of the house.

The Thoroughbred screams, rearing back and announcing its fear as your adrenaline works through you.

You meet Arthur underneath, hiding behind the boards as you fall against them.

“You didn’t get shot, did you?” he asks, his face pale with worry.

“No. But I about did...” you glance between the boards then, watching as the wagon finishes approaching, and the quickly reload, “And we’re gonna be if we don’t take that Gatling gun out.”

Your mother coughs, looking to Arthur then, “T-That’s a rifle in your hand, boy. Fuckin’ use it.”

Arthur leans in then, looking at the boards and trying to figure out what he’s going to do.

“I don’t think I have a clear shot... Not without breaking some of this wood away...”

“Goddammit,” you knock your head against the board before grabbing it from Arthur, surprising him, “Just like with the god damn bear...”

“Wolf, what are you doin’—”

“I want you to hop onto that horse and head into the woods with my mom. Get her out of here.”

Arthur frowns, stepping forward then, “Wolf, I’m not leavin’ you—”

“Too fuckin’ bad,” you tell him, looking at the rifle and getting a feel for it in your hands, “You already had your time to say no.”

“Wolf—”

“I got some cover, but that’s all there is for any of us. And I’m gonna have to move the boards to put the rifle through to be able to shoot... When I do that, they’re gonna shoot the entirety of this place,” you prop the gun against one of the loose boards then, watching as they get the last of the ammo clip into the gun, “And I would find a little more comfort in knowin’ you won’t be here when that happens.”

“Wolf, I’m not—”

“Do you trust her?” your mother asks.

Looking caught between the two of you, Arthur nods, “Yes...”

“Good. Then that’s all you need,” your mother moves towards the back, and she motions for Arthur to follow, “You already asked her to do the same. It’s time you made it mutual.”

Arthur looks pained, and he grabs onto your hand, squeezing tightly.

“I’m comin’ back for you.”

“ _Go._ ”

Arthur turns then, moving to where your mother has moved the Thoroughbred up. He hops onto the saddle, joining your mother as he takes the reins and spurs the horse forward. It gallops away as your mother takes Arthur’s carbine, having it at the ready for any hunters they may come across.

Turning, you settle yourself against the copper still as they clip the Gatling gun back together, shouting at the other to go ahead and start shooting.

## CRACK!

The barrel of your rifle passes through the wood, tearing apart the wall as they aim the Gatling gun towards you. Aiming, you take a deep breath, right as the Gatling gun begins to spin.

The gunner’s head split with a sickening sound, blood rising into the air like mist as you cock it back. Cursing, one of the other men pushes his fallen brother out of the way, going to man the Gatling gun himself.

This time, he beats you, but you’re able to fall down to the ground, huddling against the dirt as the hundreds of bullets pierce through the wood and into the ground before you. The copper still makes an awful noise as bullets hit into it, bending the metal and ripping through with a shrill ringing that has you placing your hands over your ears.

It isn’t until the frenzy stops that you sit up, now covered in dirt as the air somewhat settles.

The entire underside of the cabin is now shot to hell, with pieces of wood fractured every which way and shards lining the ground. You know the only reason you’re alive right now is because of the copper still, and you know more than ever that it cannot take another beating like the one it just endured.

Putting the rifle back into your hands, you move into action. Especially as you hear your mother fire her gun off into the woods.

As the men rush to refill the Gatling gun, you waste no time. Taking the rifle, you shoot and kill the man manning the Gatling gun. And before they can react, you quickly move to your carbine, dropping the rifle and firing in quick succession to drop the men at the wagon before they have a chance to finish their work.

The few bounty hunters left at the front take notice of you, but they know it’s only you now, and that your mother is off in the trees with Arthur.

You’re not who they are after, and so they ride off in the direction of the gunfire in the nearby swamp.

Cursing, you move over to a Morgan that one of the dead bounty hunters had owned, and you hop onto the chestnut stallion, spurring him as you quickly reload as you follow them.

Picking off who you can as you ride into the woods, you try to spot Arthur or your mother, only to have the Morgan nearly buck you off as one of your mother’s traps goes off.

Dirt rushes into the air as something explodes, and you hear the men scream as the soil begins to fall back down onto the ground.

“Jesus,” you hiss, but you still spur the Morgan forward, following the sound of the fighting.

“—we gotta go back!”

It’s Arthur, and you feel something in yourself cry in relief as you close in, “Can’t you hear? The Gatling gun ain’t firin’ no more!”

“We’re surrounded! There’s no way we can get back there—”

A bullet flies past your mother’s head, hitting one of the bounty hunters that was coming up from behind the tree, his body falling as your mother and Arthur swivel their heads in your direction.

“Wolf!” they cry in unison.

“Come on! We gotta lose them!”

Arthur moves the Thoroughbred to where he is at your side, and the two of you begin to spur the horses away from the men that pursue you on foot through the swamps.

Another trap is set off, and the explosion only spurs the two stallions forth, and you look back over to your mother.

“Who in the hell did you piss off to make them get a Gatlin’ gun!?”

“The bastard that should be dead!” your mother fires a clean shot into the chest of a man that runs after you, and she watches the back as you and Arthur try to ride away at a full gallop.

“God, what in the hell is it with your family, Wolf?”

“Oh, shut up, Arthur!” you growl, and you motion to a split in the trees ahead, “Come on, turn up here— we’ll split off the main road, head more towards Lagras. We’ll try and lose them in the swamps there!”

Arthur follows your lead as you pull off the main road, heading westward and back towards Bayou Nwa as you work your Morgan. Arthur stays behind you steadily, your mother eventually turning back and gripping onto him as she settles the Cattleman back into his holster.

“Looks like we’re clear,” she tells you both, and you have to slow the horses down as the thick cypress trees begin to appear in overwhelming numbers, “I think most of them got stuck in the traps I laid back there.”

“Speakin’ of, did you use fuckin’ dynamite, woman?” Arthur glances over his shoulder at you.

“It saved us, didn’t it!?”

Running a hand over your face, you near the edge of Lake Lakay, you point, “Look... We can cross the swamp a bit right there, hide on the bit of land that’s in the lake...”

As you start to push the Morgan into the murky water, Arthur hisses, “Jesus...”

You both cross, your boots and pants getting soaked in the process. You come out on the other side, hopping down then to lead the Morgan through the reeds.

“We’ll hide the horses to where they can’t see them first thing... It helps that it’s dusk, but we better not take the chance until they clear out,”

“And after that?”

“We just wait... Ain’t much else we can do.”

Sighing, your mother gets off of her Thoroughbred before Arthur, “God damn shame... I was gonna have such a good stew.”

“Sorry we ruined your dinner plans, Mrs. Broce,” Arthur huffs, “But we’ve got provisions to tide you over ‘till you can make another.”

Humming, she regards Arthur then as she works through the reeds, meeting you on the other side as you pull your sodden boots off.

“So... Who in the hell are you anyway?”

“Arthur Morgan,” he says grumpily as he places your mother’s Thoroughbred next to the Morgan.

Your mother sits down beside you, working her own soaked boots off of her feet, “How do you know my daughter?”

“Mama, you ain’t got no place to ask—”

“I do when he’s got guns and things as he does,” she looks Arthur up and down as he settles across from you both, “If I didn’t know any better, he could’ve easily been one of the men huntin’ me back there.”

“I ain’t no bounty hunter,” Arthur murmurs, working his boots off.

“Ah. Other side of the law then,” she hums.

Chuckling, Arthur sets his boots beside him to dry out, “You have no idea.”

“How much is your bounty runnin’ for?”

“Mama!” you hiss.

“Last I checked, it was a few grand on one of ‘em,” Arthur says impassively, taking a cigarette out of his satchel and lighting his match.

Your eyes widen, and this time it’s you asking away, “You have several grand over your head on just _one_ bounty?”

“You do too, though.”

Your mother gapes then, knocking you in the shoulder and looking humored, “What did you do?”

“I don’t—”

“It was kind of a wrong place wrong time, kinda thing...” Arthur explains, “We... we were in town when some unfortunate events transpired,” at your confused expression, Arthur blows out a lungful of smoke before murmuring, “It was Cornwall, remember?”

Nodding then, it comes back to you.

“Well, glad to know what my daughter’s been busy,” your mother then nods to Arthur, “Can I get a smoke?”

“Sure.”

You roll your eyes as Arthur hands her a cigarette and match of her own, and she takes them gleefully.

“It ain’t like what you think,” you snip, watching as your mother lights the cigarette, pulling in a greedy breath and sighing out the smoke with relief.

“A few thousand dollars is held on your name. What other way is there to think about it?”

“Listen, it wasn’t until papa died that I got mixed into this,” you cross your arms over your knees as the sun finally disappears and the night begins to set in.

Your mother hums, holding her burning cigarette between her fingers as she asks, “What happened?”

“He got sick... Pneumonia,” you say softly, “He was sick for a while, never got better... Didn’t help that the doctor I took a loan for pretty much poisoned him... Arthur here, he was... He was in the gang I borrowed from... We met when he came to collect, the day papa died.”

Your mother looks to Arthur then, her eyes narrowing.

“He only helped me, mama... He convinced the man I owed to let me work off my debt. He’s only ever helped me since... I... I don’t think I’d be here if it weren’t for him...”

Your mother gauges Arthur then, and the man’s gaze holds her own as she lets out a deep breath a smoke. The outlaw doesn’t falter under her attention, but rather meets it head-on.

“Guess I can let you live, then—”

“Mama!”

Across from you, Arthur’s lips break out in a smile, and he chuckles. But it soon grows into a laugh, deep and from the gut in a way you’ve never heard.

Looking confused between the two of them, your mother only joins in, laughing while you glance between them both in confusion.

“Ah, I like your mom,” Arthur says a little breathless, clapping at his knee.

“And I like your _friend,_ ” your mother tells you, and you shake your head.

“Do you have any whiskey in that satchel of yours?”

Wordlessly, Arthur reaches in and hands you the bottle. You take it, downing quite a bit before passing it over to your mother’s awaiting hand, and you lay down in the dirt, your eyes watching the sky.

“This is a goddamn mess,” you mutter, running a hand over your eyes.

“Life often is,” your mother murmurs.

And for the first time since you found her, there is one thing you can agree on.

 

**\---**

_Year passed, and Joseph never came back._

_You’ve forgotten him with the passing of time. Too much of which was spent longing, hoping that he would return when he never did._

_It was a foolish time, a young love, a first love — one that knew no better because it knew nothing else._

_But you’ve grown up since that time, forgetting about Joseph in what ways you could. But you still wore that pendant every day, holding onto some hope that, maybe, just maybe, he would return just as the orchids do in the spring._

_But then, your father fell ill, and now, with his cough only worsening, and with no money left to get Francis to see him, you were left with a choice._

_You walk into the fence, the one that you heard was opened in the stables in town. You come in, your hand clenched at your side as you approached the stableman._

_“I don’t have any horses—”_

_“I’m not here for horses.”_

_The man seems to catch up then, nodding._

_“Then what other business were you lookin’ to partake in?”_

_You extend your hand out, and the man opens his own underneath. You flex your palm open, allowing the necklace that Joseph had given you to fall into the man’s hand._

_“How much can I get for that?”_

_“Hm... Guess about ten dollars...”_

_The man gets his money clip out, tucking the necklace into his pocket and looking to you then as he gives you the money._

_“Say, why’s a girl like you pawnin’ off your jewelry?”_

_“Had to grow up at some point,” you smile, and you take the money, stepping away from the man._

_Huffing, the man calls after you, “Well, if you need to sell anything else, you know where to find me!”_

_You step back out onto the street, tucking the money into your dress._

 

**\---**

Come later in the dead of night, you all head back to the cabin that your mother was situated in.

The bounty hunters are long gone— at least, the ones that lived are. The bodies of the others litter the ground, and the Gatling gun remains unmanned in the shot-up wagon.

Your mother makes a small curse, heading inside while you are Arthur wait down below for her. You both whistle loudly, calling for your horses that are hidden across the road in the cypresses there. As you see D’or and his Walker begin to approach, you sigh.

“You alright?” Arthur asks.

“’Bout as good as I can be,” you murmur, shifting in your damp boots, “Not sure how I feel about any of this...”

Arthur hums, scratching at his chin and keeping his eyes on his Walker as they begin to cross the field littered with spent bullets and stiffening bodies of the bounty hunters.

“Think I got everythin’.”

You both turn around as your mother comes back down the steps, a sack thrown over her shoulder as she glances between you both.

“Afraid I’m gonna have to move after this...”

“I could imagine,” Arthur comments idly, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt.

She goes to her Thoroughbred, hooking her bag onto it and sighing, “I wish we could’ve met under better circumstances,” she pauses then, facing you, “Then again, I wish everything could’ve had better circumstances.”

You’re not sure what to say, but your mother comes forward, slightly unnerved to your surprised. She looks at you, her lips pressed together tightly as she considers what she is to say.

“I—” she starts, falling silent for a moment before she is able to speak once more, “I was wondering... If I could write to you...”

“I don’t think that’s gonna happen,” you say sternly.

Your mother’s face falls, “Why not?”

“I don’t think I could,” you murmur, “I’m still angry. I’m still reelin’ over all this. Writin’ you? Feels like the last thing I wanna do right now...” and then, you add, “Mail ain’t really for folks on the run.”

Your mothers face falls, but she nods, “I see... I just... I wanted to ask.”

She goes to walk away, but Arthur stops here.

“Here.”

To your surprise, Arthur rips a page out of a page of his journal, and he folds it once before passing it over to your mother.

“It’s an alias we have for the post office,” he tells her, “Just write to that, and she’ll get your letters.”

You stare at Arthur as your mother smiles, “M-Merci...”

“Stay safe, Mrs. Broce.”

“You too, Arthur,” she then looks to you, and she goes to reach out to you, but her hand falls away, and her smile is pained as she forces it back down to her side, “I... I really wish things could’ve been different for us, ma fleur.”

Blinking, you watch as she saddles up, leaving you and Arthur behind.

The outlaw is quiet at your side until she is gone, and then he looks to you, an odd expression on his face.

“What does _ma fleur_ mean?”

His pronunciation is awful, but it doesn’t stop the way your eyes sting.

“My flower.”

You waste no time, getting onto D’or, nearly leaving Arthur behind, causing the outlaw to rush to hop onto his Walker, coming up from behind you.

“Hey!” he calls you out, coming up to your side as you head westward, “Why are you—”

“Why did you give her the alias?” you ask, voice brittle, “I told her I didn’t want to write to her.”

“You’re angry. It’s not misplaced. It’s not. But... Wolf, that’s your mother.”

You stop D’or abruptly, the mare skidding to a stop. Arthur curses as his Walker goes past you. He manages to get the colt to slow, and he turns, you both facing at each other, opposites in every sense of the word.

“It’s _my_ choice whether or not that happens, and you went and made it for me anyway,” you hiss.

“Because now isn’t the time for you to make that choice,” Arthur tells you, his voice level and eyes narrowed, “Do you think that when you are as angry as you’ll ever be is the time to choose if you wanna keep someone in your life? Especially when they’re the reason why you’re hurtin’?”

“She lied to me,” you say, tears openly falling now, “She _left_ me—”

“She protected you,” Arthur’s voice is as piercing as his gaze, and you drop your eyes down, your vision blurring as your knuckles pop around D’or’s reins, “For a parent, there is nothin’ scarier than the idea of your child gettin' hurt because of you. Or worse, them gettin' killed. This... her leavin’... It was easier than knowin’ you weren’t the one who wasn’t comin’ back...”

The way Arthur speaks of this shocks you, and you face him to find the outlaw looking away. His face like stone, and a deep pain radiates from him at that moment— a pain that you didn’t know he carried as though it were cast and molded, attached to him by lengths of chain.

“Your mother, she loved you then, and she loves you now,” he murmurs, “I’m not tellin’ you to throw away your anger or to think it isn’t somethin’ you should feel... Just that... Don’t let it tell you what you want to do... Because you may find yourself wantin’ after somethin’ different once it passes.”

This time, Arthur turns, his back facing to you as he leads his Walker down the moonlit road.

“Come on. We need to start headin’ back.”

Hanging your head, you lightly spur D’or, following behind Arthur as you consider his words.

 

**\---**

You arrive at camp come that morning. With no storm stopping you, you both opted to ride directly there. And, despite the exhaustion you carry for the choice, you’re grateful.

Arthur hitches his Walker beside you as you finish tethering D’or to her post, and he nods once to you before he walks away, heading towards his tent.

You take a deep breath, leaving behind D’or.

A few of the camp members eye you oddly, taking in your dirtied clothes and worn expression as you round Pearson’s wagon, heading in the direction of the edge of camp without passing by Arthur’s tent.

As you approach the edge, you take in the sound of crying, and your eyes narrow as you seek out the source as you near the edge of the camp.

Behind one of the oaks is Mrs. Adler, wrapped up tight in a blanket with her hands pressed against his face as she openly weeps.

“Mrs. Adler?” you call to her softly.

She jumps, not expecting you to have come across her. Her eyes are bloodshot, red and swollen from the tears she has shed as she wipes at them.

“M-Ms. Broce,” she tells you, “Sorry, I was just leavin’—”

You set a hand down on her shoulder, stopping her from where she was getting up. She looks confused until you sit down beside her, sighing and leaning against the thick trunk of the oak behind you both.

“Call me Wolf,” you tell her.

“Then call me Sadie,” she murmurs, “Hearin’ Adler... It just hurts right now...”

You look out to where the sun begins to rise, and you murmur, “Do you need to talk?”

“I... Talkin’ won’t do much,” she tells you softly, her crackly voice hoarse from her crying, “Not in the ways I want it to... But... Jamie used to tell me that talkin’ was really the only thing that keeps us sane when everythin’ goes wrong.”

You nod, ”He’s right.”

“I miss talkin’ to him... Even now, I miss the times where we fought,” a few fresh tears fall down her cheeks, “I’d give anythin’ just to even be able to do that again... Yell at him about forgettin’ to feed the horses, or because he ate a pack of oatcakes before dinner,” she laughs, but it is mixed with a sob as she wipes at her eyes, “Because at least he was there, y-ya know?”

Nodding lightly, you whisper, “My father used to yell at me for even just leavin’ the house... We got into fights all the time. Even bent his gun once, during an argument... It’s funny how you miss the bad times too, once they’re gone...”

The sun rises over the trees, and the birds wake to sing as Sadie exhales brokenly at your side.

“I just wish... Wish I got more time with him,” Sadie sighs, the sound raw and vulnerable, “But sometimes, we aren’t given the choice.”

“No,” you murmur, “We aren’t... But we are given one, with others...”

You begin thinking of your father then, how he gave everything up for you after your mother left. How he longed after her and knew that he was raising you on his own, never to see her again.

Your father, he didn’t get that choice. No matter how much it hurt him, knowing your mother was gone. How he had to tell his daughter that she didn’t have to run to keep them safe, but that she had died.

To have tried to keep you safe, knowing at any point those men from before could come back, and he was all you had left to protect you.

And protect you he did.

Because he loved you. And love, it’s not a simple as devotion. It is sacrifice. It is loss. Love, it comes in many forms and many ranges.

As profound of an emotion as it is, it is not a single concept. It is not as superficial as caring for someone in your life.

It is drowning in the ocean while flying amidst the stars— it is a feeling of utter totality between two separate people.

Your father loved you, just as he loved your mother. And your mother, she loved your father, just as she loved you.

Your parents, all they did was love you. All they wanted was you to be safe, to grow up into the woman that you are now— because they did anything and gave everything for you to get the chance.

And despite all the anger and hurt you feel, you realize why. You understand.

Because your love for your father meant that you gave and sold everything when he got sick. That you starved— for food, for money, for your father to get better. Your love for your father drove you to get justice for his death.

And as for your mother, your love for her would be proven true when she writes, and with what decision you will make when that happens.

But until that time comes, you know that you will come to try and take care of the others that you were coming to love, slowly but surely, like the sun as it rises.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OOGnPsSikEQ
> 
> If you want to support me, I have a ko-fi now!  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy


	9. Horseshoe IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could easily pay back my debt right now,” you tell him, “I have enough money in my tent. Have had it sense before the ferry job went south. There would be no need for you to send me on my way to the train to absolve somethin’ I can easily take care of myself.” 
> 
> The surprise on Dutch’s face is genuine as his brows raise and his eyes widen some, and he tilts his head at you, “Is that so?” 
> 
> “Yes.” 
> 
> “Then, if you’ve had the money this entire time, why haven’t you made the attempt to pay Strauss back?” Dutch counters, and you can see him thinking about your admission as he speaks, “You easily could’ve walked at any point now, even before you got your own bounty. Unless... there was somethin’ else keepin’ you here.” 
> 
> You say nothing, even as Dutch’s eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips quirk as he eyes you knowingly. 
> 
> “Or should I say someone?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys! Such a long awaited chapter!
> 
> I know I took a little bit to get this one pumped out, but I had some unfortunate life events transpire that took precedence over the story and its writing for a few weeks. I spoke about it a little on my Tumblr, but my aunt was hospitalized and there was a wild back and forth roller coaster of things being manageable and then having things go wrong, as infections tend to go sometimes. Thankfully, she got out and seems to finally be on the road to recovery, so there we are!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who checked in and showed love outside of fic comments or questions! It meant a lot to see that kind of support from you all!
> 
> That being said now, this chapter was really fun! I enjoyed getting to write some of the scenes you guys are gonna see, and we got to work a bit more on some characters we haven't really gotten much time with in the story up until this point!
> 
> Heads up as well, there is a little bit of a graphic depiction in a later scene of this chapter, so **reader discretion is advised.** It's nothing massive, and it's a split second of something that goes down, but I wanted to give a warning just in case!
> 
> Also, fun fact: we have one more chapter in Horseshoe! So be prepared! Next chapter is gonna be fun! (:
> 
> Hope you all like this one, and sorry for the wait! I'm now off to play Zoo Tycoon 2, lol.
> 
> Enjoy!~

“ _And the brave knight raised his sword Excalibur, and was declared the king of the land!”_

You watch Jack with a small smile as he brandishes his stick and raises it into the air, his imagination turning the crooked length of lichen-embellished wood into a mighty weapon of legend. The weather has been a bit more forgiving in terms of losing its chill, and the sun shines happily overhead. 

As Jack looks to you, beaming just as brightly, his lips part into a wide smile, showing you his loose front tooth as he comes back over to you, his bare and dirt-covered feet crinkling the grass by your tent as he all but runs into your tent. 

“How was that?” he asks, “Did I seem brave enough?” 

“You’re mighty brave, even when you aren’t playin’ pretend,” you tell him, words warm and fond as they are true, “You could be king of the Heartlands for all I knew!” 

“Really?” the twinkle in his eyes makes the stars look like dying candlelight in comparison. 

“Oh yes, really!” 

Jack hums, prideful for himself as he plops onto the ground by your cot, splaying his legs and leaning back on his hands as he glances to you and where you clean your carbine. 

“Do you think Uncle Arthur could be a king too? Like in the books?” he asks. 

“Hm. Don’t see why not. Granted, we don’t have any ladies of the lake around here last I knew, and we don’t do much with swords nowadays... But who said we needed that to have ourselves a monarchy?” 

“What’s a monarchy?” 

You laugh slightly, working your rag seeped in gun oil across the steel barrel of your carbine, “It’s like havin’ a president in the sense they’re the head of the people, but it’s still very different. Ain’t no votes for who does it. They’re usually bloodlines worth of families who rule. And unlike a president, you got kings n’ queens, princes and princesses.” 

“Like chess?” 

Shaking your head, you grin at him, “Nah. Ain’t much like chess either.” 

“Grandpa Hosea taught me how to play chess. I don’t remember much though,” he sways his feet on his heels, back and forth and back and forth, and his right-hand goes to rip up some of the grass beside him to sate his boredom, “I just remember the queen is the best piece. It moves the most, and it’s what wins the game if you get it. I know because I tried to take Hosea’s king, and I had to keep playing.” 

“I never played chess,” you murmur, and Jack looks up to you, “Was it fun?” 

“It was kind of boring... I lost focus before Hosea could really teach me enough about it,” he sighs, “But you’re a lot like the queen, Aunt Wolf! You’re really important if you know so much! You and Uncle Arthur! The King and Queen of the Heartlands!” he explains, getting excited and jumping up to his feet, “Does that make me the prince?” 

Despite the flush in your cheeks, you hum, nodding, “If you want to be.” 

“Ah, now I like that! Prince Jack!” the young boy puts his hands on his hips, throwing his head back and making you laugh despite yourself, “All you need is a sword, too! And then we will have a proper kingdom!” 

“What about me?” 

Jack turns, eyes lighting up as he takes in the sight of Arthur smirking at the young lad. Jack doesn’t hesitate, running and barreling into Arthur, wrapping his hands around the man’s waist in a tight hug that Arthur chuckles at. He pats the boy on the back, and then looks up to you, shrugging as he waits for Jack to let go. 

Your chest feels warm as you avert your eyes, putting the final pieces of your carbine back into place now that you have finished cleaning it up. 

“We can get you a sword too! I found one by camp! We can go looking for another!” Jack insists as he raises his lichen-covered stick. 

“Ah, what a mighty sword for what sounds like a mighty prince!” Arthur tells him, kneeling down on his knee and raising a brow at him, “But, does our mighty prince have a fishin’ pole?” 

“Oh! I do! Hosea got me one, right before we left Blackwater! It’s in my tent!” Jack tilts his head at the outlaw then, “Why would I need a fishing pole though?” 

“Because your mama just asked me if I wanted to take you fishin’. And seein’ as you’re growin’ into a man in the blink of an eye, I think it’s about time you earn your keep,” Arthur jokes, “Say, go grab it and put your shoes on. Wolf and I will be waitin’ by the horses for ya.” 

“Okay!” 

Jack runs then, full force to where his tent is set up across from camp. Sighing, Arthur leans up from where he was kneeled down in the grass. His hand goes to brush off the bit of dirt that got onto his black jeans, and you quirk a brow at him as he heads your way. 

His eyes move to where your pristine carbine resides in your lap, and he leans against one of your tent poles. 

Dipping his head, he crosses his arms as he regards you. 

“Takin’ care of that gun, I see.” 

“It’s seen a lot of use the past few days,” your murmur, softer than the crackle of the campfire a few feet from your tent. 

Arthur hums, sobering some as he sets his eyes on you, his words careful and chosen, “You holdin’ up alright?” 

Sniffing, you place your gun to your side, and you stand up from your cot, “Now why are you askin’ me that?” 

“Because. A few days ago, the only man you killed was Francis, and you were torn up over that and rightfully so. And now, you just dropped a few dozen men like flies outta nowhere. Feel it’s warranted to at least ask how you’re holdin’ up.” 

“I’m doin’ better than those men,” you say somewhat icily as you grab onto your hat from its perch on one of your tent posts, and you remove it from the nail it was resting on to place it on your head, “Listen, Francis... It was personal there. Personal in more ways than just the fact he killed my father.” 

“He was your first,” Arthur whispers. 

“You were right when you were tryin’ to teach me when I first got into this. That sometimes you don’t exactly have a choice to make when the moment comes, to spare yourself... There is no gettin‘ to avoid it,” you quiet then, moving till you're across from him and his eyes pinch out of concern while you force yourself to not meet his gaze, “But I also realized that there is one you have to make when they come for you. It’s either you or them who’s gonna die. And I think we know who won out.” 

You move past Arthur then, leaving your carbine from where it rests on your cot. 

The outlaw catches up to you, voice cautious, “But you can handle that choice, right—” 

“I’m livin’, aren’t I?” 

As you come upon D’or and Arthur’s Walker, the outlaw sighs, murmuring, “Suppose you have me there.” 

And just like that, the conversation is over, and Arthur leaves you be as you open your saddlebag, going to grab D’or a small snack before you take her out for a ride. 

As you both tend a bit to your horses after undoing their hitches, Kieran comes up to you both then, looking a little sheepish to address Arthur, especially as Arthur glares lightly at him. The poor O’Driscoll, former or otherwise, pales a bit, swallowing and shifting his eyes as much as the straggly strands of his hair catch in the light breeze. 

“Hey, Arthur, I— I n-needed to talk to you about Bedwyr...” 

Arthur sobers up some then, straightening himself and leveling his voice, “What about him?” 

“Oh, he’s... well, he’s healin’ up some, but he’s honestly rather underweight, and he’s far too lean for a Trotter to ever be, especially at his height... He’s a strange one. He ain’t like no Trotter I’ve ever seen, the way he’s built. You sure that stableman told you right?” when Arthur makes a face at Kieran then, urging him to go on in a way that causes Kieran to splutter, “I— I was gonna make sure if it was okay with you if I could get him on a more special diet to help him get back into better shape while he heals, like I did with Miss D’or.” 

Looking over to your recovered, golden Fox Trotter and taking her in, Arthur sighs, “Yeah... Do what you need to do, Kieran. You ain’t gotta ask me. Just make sure he’s okay.” 

Kieran ducks his head, his eyes slightly looking under the brim of his head before he also acknowledges you some, “I’ll keep you updated on him.” 

As Kieran starts to walk away, Arthur calls after him. 

“O’Driscoll!” 

Kieran’s shoulders pull taught, but he stops, turning slightly from where he was facing away from you to regard the outlaw. Arthur’s lips are set sternly together, and he nods to Kieran then, eyes moving to the ground some as he mutters. 

“Thank you.” 

“T-Thank me when he’s better,” Kieran mutters, and he shuffles away quickly as Jack barrels past him. 

“Uncle Arthur, Aunt Wolf! I got my pole!” 

The boy is a beaming and bustling ball of energy, his brown shaggy hair a wild mess as he pants, his lips set into a splitting grin as he comes up to Arthur. 

The man’s bristle falls away then as though it were thorns picked from the stem of a blossoming flower, and he smiles warmly at the boy below him. 

“Well, sounds like we can go fishin’, then! You tell your momma we were headin’ out?” 

“Of course!” Jack hands Arthur his pole, and the outlaw fastens it onto the side of his saddle as you mount onto yours, “She said I hoped I caught the biggest fish she’s ever seen!” 

“You know,” Arthur starts as he gets into the saddle, the young boy hanging onto every word as the outlaw’s voice lowers, “I think I heard there was a massive chain pickerel there. Maybe you could catch it!” 

“What’s a chain pickerel?” 

Arthur laughs then, the sound golden and deep from his chest as he lowers his arm, grabbing onto Jack in one swoop and heaving the child up and onto the front of his saddle to sit at his chest, “Ah, it’s a fish, Jack. Just got a weird name is all.” 

Arthur steers his Walker then, the horse following his guidance loyally as you move D’or in the same fashion. Arthur pulls up beside you, and together, you trot your horses through the trees at the front of the camp, following the small trail that was worn in the direction of the Dakota River. 

You pass by Javier and Charles, and you nod to them both as you leave the small grouping of trees to head down the hillside. 

“You what else has got a weird name, Uncle Arthur?” the man hums, his thick arms bracing the boy between them as he rolls the reins much like the sleeves of his olive everyday shirt, “Possums! Or is it opossums?” 

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head then, “Don’t think I’m the right person to ask on that one, kid.” 

“Do you know, Aunt Wolf?” 

You blink, glancing over to see Jack leaning past Arthur’s forearms to look at you. You take a breath, raising your brows at his curiosity. 

“Think they’re the same thing, Jack. But I wouldn’t quote me on that.” 

Jack grins at you, “You must know a lot about animals, Aunt Wolf!” 

“I sure do,” you smile faintly at the boy. 

“I told my mama that I wanted a dog, but she told me no,” Jack deflates some, and you have to hide your smile at the innocence of his dismay. 

Arthur clicks his tongue then, “What she says goes, unfortunately. But, I had a dog once, Jack.” 

As you get closer to the river, the sounds of its toiling waters more evident as you trot your horses along, and Jack’s gasp mixes into its ambiance as he blurts, “You had a dog, Uncle Arthur?” 

“Sure did! Big boy, named Copper. Never seemed like he would grow up outta bein’ a puppy.” 

“Where’d you get him?” 

“He was a stray I picked up and took care of,” Arthur pauses then, the cowboy’s eyes glancing to you for a second, “Guess I got a habit of that.” 

As your heart loses its steady tempo in lieu of a rapid spluttering, Jack sighs, “Mama wouldn’t let me keep a dog even if I found it... You know, I couldn’t keep a lot of my stuff, when we ran away from Blackwater...” 

Arthur’s smile falls, and you hang your head lightly as you come upon the main road, the river running leisurely at your side. 

“I know, kid... We didn’t wanna run the way we did, but we had to. You know, if I can, I can try and get ya back your stuff.” 

“We’re going back to get it?” Jack asks, a sound of hope rising up in his voice like the way your stomach falls at his words. 

Arthur’s lips press together, and you can see the way the man readies himself and figures out his words while Jack looks up to him with as much hope as there is blue in the sky. 

“Nah, Jack... We can’t go back to Blackwater.” 

The boy crumples at that, looking even more dejected than earlier. And it’s then that your heart goes out to him, with him being nothing more than a young boy living his childhood always on the run. You don’t know how Abigail manages. 

“I liked it there. Even when I got sick,” Jack whispers quietly, like it’s something he’s not supposed to admit, “I didn’t like having to leave everything behind...” 

“Well, it ain’t that much different to what we got now,” Arthur points out, attempting to lift Jack’s downtrodden spirits. 

“No... But we stayed there the longest.” 

You swallow thickly as Arthur steers his Walker to the riverbank, the hooves of his Walker somewhat sinking into the fine gravel there before stopping a few feet away from the water. You stop beside him, and D’or flicks her tail, rumbling softly as you go to dismount. 

“I get that leavin’ as we do is hard, Jack, but we’ll try to make sure that it doesn’t happen like that anymore, okay?” 

“Okay...” 

“Hey, we’re still here now. So how about we catch ourselves some fish?” 

Jack hums, nodding as Arthur sets him down onto the ground. 

The outlaw grabs the boy’s pole and hands it to him, and once it is in his grasp, Jack immediately comes over to you as Arthur begins to get off his Walker’s saddle. 

“Aunt Wolf?” 

“Yes, Jack?” 

“Do you have a fishing pole?” 

Opening your mouth for one moment, you close it and shake your head. 

“Nah. I don’t.” 

“You can use mine.” 

Your eyes move to the outlaw that approaches you both, his footfalls crunching on the riverbank as he approaches. You quirk a brow at him as he finishes putting the last part of his fishing pole together, and he fixes the line through the holes. 

“I... I’ve never fished before,” you admit. 

“I can teach you both then,” Arthur says softly, his lips quirking in the corner. 

Your cheeks heat and you duck your head as Jack gets giddy beside you. 

“We get to learn together, Wolf!” 

“That we do, Jack,” you say quietly. 

Arthur chuckles as he removes a hook from his satchel, tying it to the end of his line then, “Now don’t you sound like a cat who got wet.” 

You send him a light glare for his words, and he replies with a laugh full of mirth. 

His hand sneaks back into his satchel, and you find yourself making a face when it emerges with a chunk of what looks like cheese held between his fingertips. 

“Rock bass and bluegill love this stuff,” he explains as he pierces the bait with the barbed end of the hook before handing it to you, “Jack, lemme get your pole fixed up too.” 

You take Arthur’s pole, the length of it feeling foreign in your hands as Arthur fixes Jack’s pole with the same cheese bait as his own. Jack shifts impatiently, eyes moving to where some of the water hints at whitecaps as it rolls over itself. 

“Alright,” Arthur hands the boy his pole back, which it is accepted instantly, “Now lemme tell you how to cast...” 

You watch as Arthur kneels down back on his knee, much like earlier at camp. He gently maneuvers Jack into the right position, his hands moving to his shoulders to get him to move just right. 

“Lean your pole back, just like this,” he guides the young boy then, his words as soft as the way he smiles as Jack understands his instruction, “And you whip it forward and let the line go. You gotta make sure it gets into the water just right.” 

Jack is quick, tossing his line forward quickly until his cast catches in the water, his baited hook splashing into the water and sinking down into it as he gives a triumphant little cry. 

“I did it! I did it!” 

“There ya go, Jack!” Arthur praises, and your chest swells some as Jack looks to you, as proud as a king with his mighty sword. 

Jack looks back then, going to reel it back in. 

“Now, you gotta wait, Jack,” Arthur stops him then, “You don’t wanna scare the fish away. They don’t like goin’ after somethin’ that moves too quickly or too much for ‘em. You gotta only do a little every so often, and they’ll come to your bait.” 

Jack does seem to sadden a little as Arthur stands up, “How long do I do that for though?” 

“Until you catch a fish!” 

“How long does it take to catch a fish?” 

Arthur chuckles, “Depends. You just have to be patient.” 

Jack makes a small noise of disappointment as Arthur steps away. 

“Just keep doin’ that while I help Aunt Wolf, okay?” 

“Okay,” he mutters. 

Arthur steps over then, and your grip on the fishing rod tightens. 

“So,” Arthur starts, his voice dipping some as he comes up behind you. 

“So,” you echo. 

You feel Arthur before you hear him, his chest coming up to your back as he moves his hands to your arms, slowly pulling them back to angle them as he had with Jack’s. 

“Just move like this for me,” he says, those words almost uttered against the shell of your ear. 

Your breath catches, much like how he stops you from where you were moving on your own. You stay still for some moments, against one another and held like your breath before Arthur leans in. 

“Now let go.” 

Your arms move, swiveling and giving momentum to your bait and casting it forth until it lands in the water much like Jack’s. You finally exhale as it sinks below the water, and Arthur pulls away from you. 

“I got a bite!” 

You jolt some at Jack’s shouting, and Arthur chuckles lightly as he goes back over to this side. And even though your line remains still, you are left reeling in his wake. 

“Yank it then, Jack!” 

The boy quickly jerks the fishing pole, causing a quick jolt in the line. 

“Good! Maybe you hooked him!” 

Jack starts to reel his line in, the tip of his pole dipping some. 

“It’s heavier!” he exclaims. 

“There you go, Jack!” Arthur exclaims, and you watch as his hook gets closer and closer to the surface and riverbank. 

“Oh...” 

On the end is a mass of mossy and waterlogged sticks, and Jack’s shoulders fall. 

“Ah...” Arthur murmurs, “Ain’t seen that kind before.” 

“I don’t wanna fish anymore,” Jack pouts, lifting the end of his rod and in turn, raising the nasty, dripping catch he’d gotten with it. 

“You sure?” Arthur asks. 

“Yeah... I don’t really like it.” 

Sighing, Arthur grabs onto the boy’s pole with one hand while the other shucks off the sodden river debris off of its hook. 

“You gotta find somethin’ and stick with it, Jack,” Arthur chastises lightly, “A lot of things won’t go right the first time. Hell, even with the second.” 

“I know,” Jack murmurs, stepping away some as he kicks the ground with his brown boots, “Mama tells me the same thing.” 

You watch as Arthur takes Jack’s rod and places it back on his Walker’s saddle. 

“Aunt Wolf!” your head swivels, and you see Jack kneeling down by some wildflowers that are growing near the edge of the riverbank, “Come help me!” 

Arthur approaches you then, smiling knowingly at you, “Guess you’re done with fishin’ too?” 

“Kinda more of a hunter, honestly,” you say somewhat sheepishly. 

“I’ll take it over,” Arthur chuckles, taking the pole from your hands. 

You nod in thanks to Arthur, trying to ignore the way he watches after you as you walk over to Jack. 

The boy is lying on the ground, legs crossed and eyes focused. His tongue peaks past his lips out of concentration as his small fingers use the stems of his picked wildflowers like lengths of chain, hooking them together blossom by blossom in a row. 

“What are you makin’, Jack?” 

“A flower crown,” he tells you, eyes lighting up as he gets the first few tightened just right, “Tilly and Mary-Beth showed me how to make them back when we were by Blackwater.” 

“Oh! Sounds pretty,” you tell him, “Can you teach me how to make one?” 

“Sure!” 

You hear Arthur chuckle at you both, and you decide to focus on Jack in front of you instead of the man recasting further out into the river. 

“So, pick the flowers you like. You gotta make sure you have a good, long stem to use. It’s how you make the chain!” Jack explains to you, and he shows you by choosing two flowers from the bunch that has grown out of the soil between you both, “And then you tie them together like it’s a string! But it’s hard sometimes because the stems can break or get really mushy and they stain your hands green.” 

You make an exaggerated face at that, “Sounds nasty.” 

“I don’t mind it! But it smells weird sometimes. Oh, and be careful about bees!” Jack warns, “When Mary-Beth was teaching me, she almost got stung.” 

“Like Bill with the bees outside the camp?” 

“Yeah! But Bill was mean to the bees. I saw him throwing stones at their nest.” 

You hum, grabbing ahold of your favorite blooms and picking them carefully from the soil, “Guess he just wanted to get rid of ‘em.” 

“Bill’s always mean though. He isn’t mean to be but he is to other people. Right now, he’s the meanest to Kieran.” 

“A lot of people are.” 

Jack frowns then, “Kieran is nice. He helped me find the sword that I used to play with today. I don’t know why people don’t like him,” Jack quiets then, leaning in, “Even Uncle Arthur is mean to him.” 

“I’ll have a talk to him about it,” you whisper. 

“I know you’ve been nice to Kieran. I saw you give him water when he was stuck against that tree.” 

You pale lightly, and you glance over to see Arthur’s shoulders tighten some. 

Softly, you pointedly weave your flowers together, staring at the array of colors and petals laid in your lap while you speak to Jack, “I never found a point in bein’ mean to him.” 

“You’re nice, Wolf. Nicer than my mama sometimes...” 

“Hey,” you tell him, growing even more serious, “Your mama loves you, Jack. More than she could ever express or tell you.” 

He fiddles with his flowers more than anything else as he replies mutely, “I know... But she gets mean sometimes. Not like Bill, but still mean. And she and my papa fight a lot...” 

“There’s been a lot stressin’ your mama out. I know that she’s been stressed since the day I came around, and that doesn’t always mean she wants to snap when she does. But she cares deeply about you, your papa too.” 

Jack stops messing with his flowers altogether then, and your brow furrows as you begin to notice the way tears crop up along the edges of Jack’s lower lashes. 

“My papa doesn’t though.” 

You hear something fall to the ground then, and your eyes dart to find Arthur coming to kneel down beside you to face Jack as he wipes at his eyes. 

“Hey now, Jack,” he starts, his voice the softest you’ve ever heard it, “That ain’t true...” 

“But he r-ran away,” he hiccups, “Mama told me, that he said he didn’t want me—” 

“Your papa is a fool, I can’t deny you that. But that don’t mean he doesn’t care, Jack,” Arthur says as Jack looks at him, face red and cheeks damp with fresh tears, “And even if you don’t believe me, we all love you. The gang adores you, Jack.” 

Jack’s eyes move to you then, looking as fragile as cracked porcelain at that moment, “W-What about you?” 

You tilt your head, eyes narrowing softly as your brows pinch, “Of course I do, Jack.” 

“Then why can’t you two be my p-parents?” 

You still, breath catching in your throat. 

“Now Jack—” 

“I know it’s a bad thing to say,” he sniffles, “But mama and papa fight all the time, and papa, he doesn’t want to play with me or do things with me... I just want t-them to love me like I love them.” 

You don’t hesitate then, your arms moving forward on their own accord. You pull Jack close as the boy cries, and you feel Arthur come in close. Together, you both hold onto the boy as he cries, and you share a grave look with Arthur at all of the hurt he seemed to be carrying around with him. 

“Jack,” you start, running a hand up and down his arm in an attempt at comforting him, “They do love you. I know because your mama worries about you at every second of the day. Why I heard her talkin’ about how just the other day she was so proud that you were learnin’ how to read. And your papa, while he may fight with your mama and he may have done what he did, he came back. He came back and I remember, while we were in Colter, that he thanked me after Arthur got him back because I got that nasty medicine away from you.” 

“I-It was icky,” Jack breathes some, seemingly calming a little, “But he thanked you?” 

“Yes, he did. Told me he couldn’t ever make it up to me, ‘cause nothin’ in the world is worth as much as you are to him.” 

“Oh,” Jack blinks, and he moves closer into you and Arthur. 

“She’s right, Jack. Your parents don’t mean to make you feel this way. They’re just figuring things out, and they’re human at the heart of things. But that don’t mean they don’t care.” 

As you and Arthur huddle over him, Jack murmurs, “I know...” 

You run your fingers through Jack’s hair, and the boy seems to calm down, his tears stopping but his face staying a pit puffy. He sniffles, his eyelids drooping some as you hum a soft tune to him as his head curls against your hip, and the other half of him drapes onto Arthur. Your shoulder nearly touches the outlaw’s as you hum the small lullaby to Jack, easing the boy into the start of sleep. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the boy is yours.” 

The unfamiliar voice crackles through the air and causes you to jolt, waking Jack up harshly as Arthur immediately gets to his feet. 

Before you stands an older man, his grin as wide and long as the brim of his black bowler hat as he regards you both. There’s another man behind him, his smirk almost hidden under his thick mustache, especially as he eyes you holding Jack. 

Both of their black suits are pristine, and the man who had spoken seems as nonchalant as ever as he fixes his cufflink, quirking a brow as Arthur stands in front of you and Jack. 

“Ah, Arthur Morgan,” the man’s teeth bare from his smile, their appearance reminding you of nothing but a snake as he regards the outlaw before you, “Been a while since I’ve seen you on anything more than a bounty poster.” 

“Who are you?” Arthur growls. 

“Agent Milton. Pinkerton Detective Agency,” the man states, moving one finger to tap the silver badge lining his coat near his lapel, “Agent Ross and I have been tasked with running out the rest of you rats here in the states on behalf of the government. ‘Fraid that Dutch Van Der Linde and his troop have been quite the vermin these past few months, with all of the robbings and murdering that he’s caused.” 

Arthur’s hands ball into fists at his sides, and you watch as his arms raise a bit as he squares his shoulders, his voice venomous, “What do you want?” 

“Ah, just to have a small chat, of course! See, we’ve been keeping tabs on you lot for a little while. But you _really_ caught our eyes after Blackwater,” Milton starts, his words a bit icy and bitter, “We’ve found that we have very little tolerance for folks like you.” 

“In that, we share the same sentiment,” Arthur growls. 

Milton huffs, looking entertained with the way Arthur meets his judgment back full force. He chuckles a bit then, talking off his bowler hat and running a hand through the black hair was hidden underneath. His fingers comb through the locks slicked back from his forehead and sweeping back in the direction of his neck, and to also wipe at the sweat that collected on the sides that are clean-shaven. 

He puts his bowler hat back onto his head, his eyes twinkling with a light that made you far more uncomfortable than you’d care to admit, especially as Jack clings and hides into your side. 

“You know, I got to have a little chat with Mac Callander about the same thing.” 

You watch as Arthur’s shock wins over his aggression for a moment, the side of his face growing slack with surprise for just a split second before he steels himself once more. But it was long enough for Milton. Long enough for him to notice as his lips quirk even further. 

“Don’t know who that is,” Arthur lies, and your heart thunders in your chest, your anxiety thrumming with its beat as though it was what had a pulse. 

“You know, Mac tried to play dumb with me too after I found him in the mess you all left in Blackwater. He didn’t squeal, as I’m sure that’s what you’re worried about,” Milton sighs, flicking away a bug that landed on his jacket sleeve, “Even while dying from a gunshot wound, he was as loyal as he could ever be. So, I saw it as more of a mercy killing, in the end.” 

Arthur snarls, taking a step towards Milton as his sound of rage rings out in the air between them like a crackle of thunder before the storm. 

Jack cries softly against your chest, his fear as evident as your own as your wide eyes shift between the two men. Especially as Agent Ross lifts his shotgun, aiming both barrels towards the broad expanse of Arthur’s chest as it heaves with his fury. 

“You enjoy bein’ a rich man’s toy, _do you?”_ the outlaw hisses. 

“And you seem to enjoy being Dutch’s. So truly, what is the difference between either of us?” 

“I ain’t no parasite like you are,” Arthur growls. 

Milton laughs, shaking his head, “Oh, you’re just like anyone else that Van Der Linde has _saved_ during his run. Just a poor street orphan plucked from the streets and brainwashed ever since to believe that man is a messiah and not some savage who cannot conform to what the world expects of him. You only think what you do because it’s what that bastard allows and tells you to think,” Milton takes a step towards Arthur then, his eyes narrowing, “You know, if you want your freedom, I can offer it to you. But only if you do as I say. And it will only be offered now.” 

Arthur snorts, the sound as offended as it is disbelieving, “Why do you think I’d take that?” 

“Because. There’s five thousand on your head with Cornwall alone, Mr. Morgan,” Milton raises his chin then, his dark eyes regarding Arthur in a pretentious way as he hooks his thumb into the belt loops of his dress pants, “I know you. I know you’re smart enough to realize that this way of life, it’s over. Society is changing, and it won’t allow people like you do what you want anymore. No more robberies, no more heists. No more murdering and ruining lives needlessly. No more of this idiotic and twisted sense of _patriotism_ that Van Der Linde believes he has a right to preach and uphold. Besides, I know that you have reasons to get out.” 

Milton’s eyes shift to you, and your mouth goes dry. 

Before Milton can truly eye you for too long, Arthur steps in front of you, growling, “Leave her outta this.” 

“Can’t. Not when she’s been dragged in by you,” Milton tilts his head then, “And, last I checked, she was wanted herself for murdering two men back in Blackwater, Dr. Francis Cole, and Mr. Garret Matthews. Believe Cornwall is also asking for five thousand for her head alone. Afraid I cannot overlook her just because you think you can threaten me not to.” 

Arthur’s lips press together then, but he does refrain from not responding to Milton’s antagonizing. 

“I heard you played house together, while you went to Havenwood Plantation. Mr. and Mrs. Callahan as I was told. You know, if you take me up on my offer, you won’t have to play pretend with one another.” 

“What offer?” 

Your eyes shift back to Milton, and he hums, “That you turn in your beloved Dutch Van Der Linde.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he’s been causing up problems for far longer than Blackwater. But the mess he wrought in that town has men far bigger and dangerous than I asking for him to be dealt with. I told you, Mr. Morgan, society has no intent for keeping men like Mr. Van Der Linde around for much longer. If you help us and you get us that man, there will be no need to keep tabs on how much your head is going for in what state. You and Ms. Broce here will be allowed to live your lives together in as much peace and autonomy as your heart's desire, instead of dancing around and living some fantasy in your heads.” 

Arthur swallows thickly, and he quiets, glaring at Milton. 

“Well?” the agent pushes, “What’s it gonna be, Mr. Morgan?” 

Arthur huffs, shaking his head and laughing somewhat angrily, “I think the only one who’s got a fantasy here is you.” 

Milton’s eyes narrow, and you can see his anger grow to meet Arthur’s own. 

“You’re making a mistake—” 

“The only mistake I’ve made is lettin’ you talk as much as you have. We ain’t got no business with one another, and I don’t intend to invest in any when a snake oil salesman feels more genuine than what you’re playin’ at.” 

Arthur steps away then, keeping his eyes on Milton as he moves back to you and Jack. 

“You people venerate savagery, and you will die savagely! All of you!” 

“Tell yourself whatever helps you sleep better at night, Mr. Milton.” 

The agent hisses, looking over to his partner and nodding to where their two brown standardbreds reside behind them. 

“We will be back, Mr. Morgan. And I assure you, I do not intend to offer the same hospitality as I have given today.” 

“Fun thing is, mister, I think you’ll find I personally don’t care much for hospitality,” Arthur growls as he comes upon you and Jack, standing you both up as he places one hand at the small of your back while the other tries to shield you both from the other man, “Next time we see each other, maybe I should show you just how savage I can be by offering you up some buckshot for the trouble.” 

Milton glares venomously as Agent Ross approaches him with his horse. 

“You’ve made a grave mistake.” 

“And you’ve made an ass of yourself. Now piss off.” 

Milton grabs onto the reins of his colt, whipping them harshly against the poor horse and having it gallop off in the direction of the main road. Agent Ross is at his side, and he glances back, looking to Jack. 

“Enjoy fishin’ while you still can, kid!” 

Arthur’s teeth grit together as the two agents ride off, and it isn’t until you see them disappear past the hill that Arthur makes you all move towards the horses. 

“U-Uncle Arthur, who were they?” Jack asks. 

“Bad men, Jack.” 

Jack makes a small noise as Arthur allows you to get onto D’or before setting Jack onto the saddle in front of you. 

“Arthur,” you start as he sets the boy down, his green eyes steeled as they meet your own, “What are we gonna do?” 

“We gotta make sure we aren’t followed for one. The camp is far too close for a meetin’ like that. I doubt they would’ve had more men with them to deal with just us two, and if they knew where we were they just would’ve come to camp instead of meetin’ us here by the river. But I don’t wanna take the chance of leadin’ them back and lettin’ them know where we are.” 

“They sure as hell knew _who_ we are,” you breathe, your hands unsteady as you grab D’or’s reins while Arthur departs to saddle up on his Walker. 

“They want us to feel like we gotta cow toe to them, Wolf. They will get us scared and use that in their favor,” you both begin to steer your horses in the opposite direction in which Agent Milton and Ross left, “Men like them ain’t above playin’ people like fiddles. They ain’t got true morals, ‘cause they think the work their doin’ is just, no matter what they gotta do to complete it in the end.” 

You let out a shaky breath as Jack holds onto you, D’or catching up to a good canter as you spur her to match Arthur’s new speed, “Do you think we’ll move again?” 

“We should, but I don’t know where we could go next. Dutch planned on trying to head eastward, if we could. But I doubt things have cooled off in Blackwater to do that. Especially if we got government agents tryin’ to sniff us out.” 

“And to think things started lookin’ better...” 

“It usually ain’t like this... I told you, before that robbery went south in Blackwater, that it used to be as easy as packin’ up and movin’ around to keep goin’. But Milton isn’t wrong— times are changing, and this way of life, it’s dyin’ in ways I don’t think Dutch can admit. Even in way I don’t wanna admit.” 

As you round up one of the nearby hills, going the opposite way to head to camp, you ask, “Then why didn’t you take his offer? Or at least consider it?” 

“Wolf, I couldn’t take that attempt of bribery and you know it.” 

“I’m not sayin’ that you should’ve for the sake of betrayin’ Dutch or your own morals, and I ain‘t sayin' that Milton seemed like he wasn’t pullin’ your strings,” you explain, “But if things are gettin' harder, if this way of life is dyin’ as you say it is, then why ain’t you considerin’ gettin’ outta this way of life?” 

Arthur sighs deeply, the sound haggard and strained as the trees frame the road. You both pass through the arrangement of pines as you follow the dirt path that winds through them, and Jack sniffles against your shirt. 

“I don’t think I could ever get out, Wolf. It ain’t as simple as Milton made it. And I don’t mean that in the sense that I didn’t believe his offer and that’s why I didn’t take it. Because I don’t either way. I ain’t got no reason to but it ain’t my point,” Arthur shakes his head then, one of his arms falling to his side as he holds the reins to his Walker within the other, “Bein’ an outlaw, it’s all I’ve been pretty much my entire life. I was startin’ up even before Dutch found me, because it’s how I had to survive. And once you start, it’s almost impossible to stop.” 

“But that means it is possible, then. It will just be hard to do,” he glances at you then, “I ain’t tellin’ you to drop everythin’ right now, and I ain’t tellin’ you to go off and turn Dutch in so you can start tryin’. But how far does it have to go before you ask yourself if it’s harder to keep goin’ as you are than to change?” 

“I don’t know,” he admits, his head ducking slightly, “I really don’t know, Wolf.” 

“Well, we ain’t gotta do anythin’ right this second. And things, well... they ain’t awful now. They ain’t ideal, either, but there’s no reason for us to think we’re done for just yet.” 

Quietly, Arthur murmurs, “We’re far from done, I can tell you that.” 

“Then ain’t no reason to finish things until that point comes... But, Arthur,” you pause, and the outlaw looks over to you for a split second, “Think about it. Because it will come. Maybe not today, but someday. And you need to know what you’re gonna do when it does.” 

“I know...” he sighs, and the cowboy stares at the winding road ahead, his mind just as heedful, “I know.”

**\---**

The sun is sitting almost midway in the sky when you arrive back at camp, the cicadas screeching in the trees as you finish hitching D’or to the post underneath them. You see Abigail, having waited by one of the stumps there to greet you both. She takes in the sight of your worn expressions, and the clearing flush and drying tracks of tears on Jack’s face.

“What happened?” she asks, the worry in her voice evident already as she swarms her son, wrapping him up in her arms as she looks to you both. 

“Nothin’ that you need to go gray over,” Arthur plays it off then, smiling softly at Abigail as she looks as disheveled as the wisps of her raven hair that fall about her angular face, “We just gotta talk to Dutch... Sorry the fishin’ trip didn’t go as planned.” 

“No... It’s alright. Sometimes the world has different intentions than the ones we want,” Abigail looks down to where Jack wraps his arms around her waist tightly, “Come on, Jack. I have a surprise for you.” 

Jack looks up to her then, lightening up a bit as she takes his hand to guide him back to where their tent resides on the edge of camp. 

“A surprise?” 

“Of course, I got it just for you!” 

Their voice grow quieter with distance, and you let out a breath from where you and Arthur look after them. It isn’t until they have disappeared past Pearson’s wagon that Arthur spits off to the side before regarding the massive expanse of canvas that is Dutch’s tent. 

“Come on. We gotta let Dutch know what happened.” 

As you head towards the tent, you look to Arthur as you walk by his side, “What do you think Dutch is gonna do?” 

“If he’s smart, he needs to try and figure out where we’re goin’ next. We need to leave soon if the Pinkertons are that close and that adamant on findin’ us.” 

You hum, nodding in agreement as Arthur goes to where the flaps of canvas cover the front of Dutch’s tent, his hand parting them. 

You see Dutch before he notices you two. He’s smoking his usual cigar, his eyes trained on some book in his hands from where he sits on his cot. He seems to be enjoying himself, until he hears Arthur clear his throat. 

The man’s cold, brown eyes land on your first, lingering there for a moment before they shift to Arthur, and his irises seem to thaw as his lips crack with the start of a smile. 

“Arthur,” he greets in that deep baritone of his, and he closes his book, setting it down onto his cot and turning towards the fellow outlaw, “What pleasantries have brought you my way, son?” 

“Dutch, we gotta talk about somethin’. Somethin’ big,” Arthur enters the tent, motioning for you to follow as you slip past the fabric of the tent’s cover, it falling behind you and shielding you all from any curious eyes of the camp as Arthur’s face turns grim, “We were confronted by Pinkertons earlier.” 

Dutch’s smile falls away, and that same chill that had been present before returns like a cold snap, washing out the man’s skin and icing his words as he asks, “What happened?” 

“We were down at the river, me and Wolf. We took Jack out to fish, per Abigail’s request... While we were there, two men, Milton and... Ross, it was— they approached us. Started talkin’ about how they was Pinkerton agents,” Arthur’s voice lowers, turning into a slight his as his face pinches and he waves his hand in front of him, “They knew who we were Dutch. They’ve known about things we’ve done. Me _and_ Wolf. As early as when we was in Blackwater.” 

Dutch curses, his face drawn up in a slight wince as his one free hand moves to his hips, his cigar burning away like his thoughts at his mind. 

“Do they know where we are now?” 

“Don’t think so... If they did, they would’ve just come here, with them bein’ that close already.” 

“What did they intend with their lovely visit then?” Dutch growls. 

Arthur’s lips press together for a moment before he answers, “They were tryna bribe me. Get me to turn you in for my freedom... Milton also told me that they got Mac. They killed him, Dutch.” 

“God. What _parasitic excuses_ of men they are,” a bit of spittle leaves Dutch’s mouth at the way he snaps under his breath. 

“What are we gonna do, Dutch? These men, they mean business. This ain’t like tryin’ to outrun regular lawmen.” 

Dutch pauses, bringing his cigar up to his lips and taking a deep, hard drag from it. Your nose twitches a bit at the acrid scent of its smoke, and you watch as Dutch sighs, the breath turned gray and cloudy before his brows pinch. 

“We can’t run just yet.” 

A look of confusion passes over Arthur’s face, and Dutch rolls his cigar between his fingers as he explains himself. 

“Those men, they want to invoke fear in us. Get us to act stupid by makin’ us think they have the upper hand. We could easily get ourselves caught, with them bein’ so close already. They probably intended for us to run first thing so we can lead them right to us.” 

“Maybe,” Arthur admits, “But we need to try and leave as soon as we can, Dutch. It ain’t safe here no more.” 

“As much as I’d love to try and pick up and move, we haven’t gotten any money since Blackwater, and what little we’ve made so far has gone just to barely resupply ourselves. If we aim to move and escape this, we have to have the means to do it.” 

The outlaw at your side makes a face then, “And how are we supposed to do that in such a short amount of time?” 

“John had a lead on a train that Mary-Beth picked up while you were in Valentine a little bit ago. The one passin’ through Scarlett Meadows?” Dutch nods to Arthur then, “In fact, he was already figurin’ the job out while you were gone. He’s lookin’ for you.” 

“I’m not sure if robbin’ a train with this much heat on us is the right thing to do, Dutch,” Arthur admits. 

Dutch laughs some, as if such a concept were humorous if anything else, “My, boy. There’s heat on us no matter what we do. If we plan on traveling however far for however long, we’re gonna have to have food and other supplies to carry us over. We don’t have much of a choice.” 

Arthur waves a hand, dismissing Dutch despite the disbelief he still evidently carries, “Whatever you say.” 

“You’ve been talkin’ to Hosea too much. His pessimism has worn on you.” 

“At least it keeps me humble.” 

Arthur goes to leave then, and you go to follow, but a hand on your shoulder stops you. 

“Ms. Broce. I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you.” 

Arthur turns around then, stopping in the entrance of Dutch’s tent as his eyes narrow on the other man. You glance between him and Dutch, especially as Dutch’s hand lingers on you, almost hesitant to leave your shoulder. 

“About what?” you press. 

Dutch glances to Arthur then, “I was hopin’ we could talk alone.” 

Arthur’s suspicion only grows, and his gaze shifts to you. You can see the blatant hesitancy he carries as he begins to step away, his face drawn up in an unsatisfied scowl as he nods to you. 

“I’ll be talkin’ to John, whenever you two are through.” 

You swallow thickly as Arthur departs, the fabric of Dutch’s tent falling back into place, and your heart feels just as heavy as the draping canvas as you look to Dutch. 

“Please, Ms. Broce. Take a seat.” 

You eye a chair across from Dutch’s cot, and you gladly move over to it, losing your sudden proximity to the man and settling yourself onto it. You sit straight and tense, your mouth somewhat going dry as Dutch moves back over to his cot, sitting down on its edge and eyeing you humoredly as he nurses his cigar. 

Some moments pass in silence between you both, and your unease only grows as every second is spent with Dutch watching you closely. 

Your fingers nervously fiddle with your pants leg, your palms sweaty as you wait for Dutch to have his fill. 

“So,” he starts after some while, his voice as soft as it could be with its natural grit, “I heard about your escapades with Arthur.” 

“Which ones?” 

Dutch laughs at that, the sound bellowing and low from his gut. His eyes are twinkling as he looks at you, as though were merely a show for him to enjoy as he flicks his cigar, ash falling away from its smoldering tip and into the grass below. 

“You’ve become quite the woman, I’ve heard,” you don’t want to acknowledge the way a slight purr tinges his words, or the way his eyes darken ever so slightly as he raises his chin at you, “Arthur spoke with nothin’ but praise for the way you handled yourself these past few weeks or so since your leg healed.” 

You’re not sure how to respond, especially with the way your heart picks up in tempo, and your gut swoops lowly at the predatory feeling the man invokes in you. 

“It’s a shame then, that Strauss says you still have yet to pay off your debt.” 

Your eyes widen some, and you open your mouth, only to shut it. Dutch takes another pull of his cigar, patient and tactical where you are unsure and unprepared for this. 

He exhales, blowing smoke above him and letting it dissipate into the air before he speaks again. 

“I wanted to cut you a deal.” 

You narrow your gaze on the man, “A deal?” 

“Yes. I can write off your debt with Strauss entirely, but there is somethin’ I ask of you in return.” 

“And that is?” 

The man smiles, his teeth glinting as he speaks, “I want you to partake in this train robbery.” 

Your blood turns cold, and your breath leaves you shakily as Dutch gauges your reaction. 

“M-Me?” you stutter, “Why would you—” 

“I want to see what you’re truly capable of, and if all this faith that Arthur has put into you is warranted,” Dutch sets his cigar down into what looks like a leftover shot of whiskey, and it hisses as it makes contact with the liquid before his eyes meet yours, “Otherwise, I’m not exactly sure why you’re here.” 

You try not to waiver under Dutch’s attention as you meet him head on. 

“So you’re kicking me out if I don’t do it.” 

Dutch shakes his head, far too chipper for what you’re sure was his hidden ultimatum, “Oh, I never said that! I wouldn’t turn you away, not with these men after your head too,” Dutch’s voice quiets, dipping an octave then, “It’s a terrifying world for a woman on the other side of the law.” 

The way he talks to you is unnerving, and you take a deep breath, steeling yourself then. The last thing you want to do is show that you are weak and malleable to Dutch’s whims. 

“I could easily pay back my debt right now,” you tell him, “I have enough money in my tent. Have had it sense before the ferry job went south. There would be no need for you to send me on my way to the train to absolve somethin’ I can easily take care of myself.” 

The surprise on Dutch’s face is genuine as his brows raise and his eyes widen some, and he tilts his head at you, “Is that so?” 

“Yes.” 

“Then, if you’ve had the money this entire time, why haven’t you made the attempt to pay Strauss back?” Dutch counters, and you can see him thinking about your admission as he speaks, “You easily could’ve walked at any point now, even before you got your own bounty. Unless... there was somethin’ else keepin’ you here.” 

You say nothing, even as Dutch’s eyes crinkle at the edges and his lips quirk as he eyes you knowingly. 

“Or should I say someone?” 

“You have no clue to what you’re talkin’ ‘bout.” 

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. But I do know one thing. You chose not to pay your debt, and I’m sure you would’ve kept goin’ had I not said anythin’ to you,” Dutch hums then, “Your money— keep it.” 

“Why?” 

Dutch sighs, leaning back and placing his hands on his knees, “Because, I have more interest in your worth than whatever Strauss has written in that ledger of his. That, and personally, I’m not a fan of laundering— even to us folk it’s rather morally dubious.” 

You try not to make a sour face at his words, and you breathe sharply through your nose as Dutch stands. 

“All I am askin’ is that you go on this one robbery. That’s it, Ms. Broce. If you’re to run with my troop, and if you’re goin’ to run around with Arthur as you do, I want to know that I can trust you in those kinds of situations. Especially with these Pinkerton bastards comin’ after us.” 

“And if I refuse?” 

Dutch blinks slowly, and the mirth you see in his face isn’t exactly of a jovial nature as he meets your glare without hesitancy or shame. 

“Then you’ll go back to washin’ clothes and lookin’ pretty in camp,” he says without a shred of any allowance for rebuttal, “Arthur, he’s practially son. Raised that boy until he was a man, right n’ proper. But you see, there’s one thing that we both share in common. And that’s when a pretty, doe-eyed little thing comes along, and with just the bat of lashes, we can’t see past anythin’ else.” 

You stare at Dutch as he comes closer to you, stopping before he stands right before you from where you are sitting in the chair. He leans down some, voice subtly crackling with a mixture of emotions you cannot place or directly pin entirely, and his eyes hungered as he speaks. 

“But I learned long ago that such naïve blindness can get you or her killed,” his voice is strained, “And I do not aim for Arthur to be a fool for the sake of a woman in the same ways I was.” 

He holds out a hand to you, and you look to it. 

“I only am doin’ this because if you are to go out into this world and live the life of an outlaw with him, you must be able to handle it and do whatever is necessary to survive. I hope you understand that there are no hard feelin’s, of course.” 

You opt not to take Dutch’s hand, standing and trying not squirm as you are nearly pressed up against one another. 

“None taken.” 

You move past Dutch then, feeling like your lungs are squeezing far too tightly in his presence as you go to exit his tent. 

“I wish you luck, Ms. Broce!” he calls after you. 

You storm off, angered most of all. 

Your eyes move across the layout of the camp, finding Arthur and John underneath the oak that resides by your tent. You already head that way, seeing the moment that John realizes you are approaching. 

“Ms. Broce—” he starts, his scratchy voice sounding surprised as Arthur turns to you, “What are you—” 

“Dutch wants me on this robbery,” you tell them, and Arthur’s face is almost comical with how he takes that. 

“What? What on earth for?” 

“He said so I can prove myself. But think it’s more than just that,” you admit. 

John doesn’t look happy as he looks to Arthur then, “I really wasn’t plannin’ on there bein’ too many people.” 

“Well, as much as I have my own reservations about it, if Dutch tells her she’s goin’, there’s not much we can do to argue such a thing,” Arthur sighs, pinching his nose, “This is just gonna make everythin’ interestin’.” 

John makes a noise of frustration, and your eyes move to him as he makes a sour face, “We’ve got till this evenin’ before the train comes through, we ain’t got time to be messin’ around!” 

“We ain’t John,” Arthur says with a bit of heat, “We never have been.” 

“Just— I’m gonna have to go into town, I need a bit of ammo if we’re gonna be able to hold our own on this thing. Arthur, I told ya, I need that oil wagon, we can’t do this without it.” 

“I gotcha, no need to panic,” Arthur waves his hands dismissively, “Just let me talk to Wolf.” 

John walks away then, his anger following him like a nasty storm cloud as he heads over to where his Hungarian Halfbred, Old Boy, is hitched, “I’ll be back in less than an hour. Say what you need to.” 

You shake your head some as you look back towards Arthur, and when your eyes meet his, you take in his pinched gaze and concerned expression. 

“What?” 

“Dutch asked you to do this?” Arthur asks. 

You frown lightly then, “Not like I had much choice but to agree... He made it clear that I come along n’ _prove my worth,_ or else he’d put me back to washin’ laundry. Not that it’s a death sentence or anythin’, but... He said I gotta show that he can trust me if I’m runnin’ ‘round with you, and not just off your assurance.” 

“That ain’t really like him...” Arthur murmurs. 

“Well, that’s what he said,” you breathe roughly, avoiding Arthur’s eyes, “I’m not exactly a fan of this, either.” 

Arthur curses softly, “First Sean forces his way into this job, and now this...” 

“ _Hey—_ ” you huff incredulously, “thought you said you was done doggin’ me.” 

“Ain’t you I’m doggin’,” Arthur explains without any bite in his voice, and with the look on his face, as he raises his brows and looks at you as if wordlessly asking for doubt, you sigh and relent before he continues, “Don’t know why Dutch is doin’ this as he is. Plenty better ways that we could get his own doubts squared away... ‘Specially with Pinkertons as close as they are.” 

“Funny. They’re why he feels _spurred_ to do this.” 

Shaking his head, Arthur removes a cigarette from his satchel, and he talks after placing it between his lips as he searches for a match, “Well, we can’t argue with it much now... We need the money this train has got, and we need it as easy as it can come.” 

Your nerves grow a bit as you murmur, “I ain’t don’t nothin’ like this... Not even with the homestead robbery you and I pulled...” 

“Hey,” Arthur pulls his cigarette out of his mouth, his search for a match now forgotten as his brows furrow and his lips quirk downward in a gentle frown, his words just as fragile then, “You ain’t got no reason to be nervous... I have faith in you.” 

“Apparently your faith ain’t enough, Arthur,” you inhale deeply, crossing your arms and refusing to look at Arthur even as he takes a step closer, “And I gotta rob a damn train for the first time to prove myself—” 

The soft touch of his calloused fingertips against your jaw has you blinking, especially as he turns your head until you are looking at him. 

His expression makes you catch your breath, and your eyes widen minutely as the outlaw’s fingers fall away slowly. 

“I meant what I said, back when we were lookin’ for your mother. You, I never had a reason to doubt you. Teach you, yeah. But there are still things even this ugly, old man can learn,” his eyes harden some then, “Dutch... He’s always been about people provin’ themselves. He ain’t a man just to go off what other people tell him. He wants to go off what he knows without a doubt. And while he may not know about you Wolf, I do. And I’m tellin’ you— you’re gonna do fine.” 

“But he should believe you,” you whisper, and it’s an admission that you know only he should hear, “You’ve been with him for over twenty years, Arthur... Shouldn’t your word almost be like his own?” 

Arthur’s face screws up in a slight wince, and he shakes his head, taking a step back from you. You don’t exactly regret the words, but you can tell they have an effect on Arthur. 

“Arthur...” 

“Listen, just... We don’t have time to talk about this no more. I gotta go get this wagon with oil,” he steps away from you then, putting his unused cigarette back into his satchel, “This train is comin’, and that’s the end of things. We can’t waste any more time than we already have.” 

“Do you want me to come along?” 

He slows a little and then looks over his shoulder at you, his words quiet, “Think... Think I’ll ride solo, for now...” 

“Oh...” 

“John will come back soon,” Arthur says, and you can tell how shifty he is as he shuffles on his feet, “Just figure out what you’re doin’ with him, and I’ll get this oil wagon for us before sundown.” 

You look down at the ground, crossing your arms, “Okay...” 

The outlaw turns, walking away and leaving you by the oak as it dances in the wind. 

After a few seconds, your eyes chance to look at him as he walks away, his shoulders bunched and pressing strained lines into the back of his shirt, and you let out a shaky breath as Arthur passes by Dutch’s tent. 

Dutch, who is now standing outside the front of his grand, makeshift abode greets him, and you watch as Arthur only waves his acknowledgment. Dutch seems surprised at how Arthur practically blows him off, and his shock guides his eyes back until they fall on you. 

They squint, and a small scowl sets on his features. Swallowing, you try not to waiver under his stare, even as the man closes his book and slithers back into his tent from whence he came. 

There are a lot of things for which you are uncertain: Dutch’s true intent with you, the gang’s future... your future with Arthur. 

But if there is one thing that you do know, it is that you are not liking this at all. Not one bit. 

And right now, there is nothing you can do but to wait and see what happens.

**\---**

John isn’t gone long, as he assured. He comes back on Old Boy, face grim and eyes stormy as he gets off of his silver dark bay Hungarian. His feet land onto the ground with a muffled thump, and he goes to untie the small satchels tied to Old Boy’s saddle as he catches sight of you.

“You gonna help or what?” 

Your glare lightly, but approach either way, going to the opposite side of John’s stallion as you both glare across its saddle at one another. 

“Ain’t no reason to be rude—” 

“You’re already comin’ with us when you shouldn’t be,” John snaps, cutting you off in a way that makes you grow lowly under your breath, “I won’t be rude when you don’t put your nose where it don’t belong.” 

“I didn’t _ask_ to come along, I was _told_ to. Buy Dutch himself.” 

John huffs as he throws the first satchel down at his feet, and his fingers angrily go to work the second free, “Dutch can tell you whatever he wants, but I know that it would be this or somethin’ later that you’d intrude on.” 

You stop working on your one satchel, and you stare daggers at the man, “You’re a god damn bastard.” 

“In that, you n’ Abigail would be in agreement,” John gets the second satchel off, and he goes to pick up the first off of the ground, “I ain’t here to make friends with you.” 

You round the poor horse as John walks away, Old Boy’s ears flattened some from your growing volume, “I’m not here to make friends either, asshole.” 

“You sure seem apt to get close to Arthur.” 

You splutter for a moment, and when John catches the way you gape, he smirks icily and turns to you. 

“You may have helped Jack, but that doesn’t mean I trust you,” John’s gaze is venomous, “Not with a gun, and sure as hell not with any of us. As far as I know, you’re about as safe as that O’Driscoll—” 

“Kieran never hurt anybody—” 

“Colm did, and he ran with ‘em.” 

The noise you make is one of pure frustration, “That isn’t fair. He ain’t Colm. He ain’t responsible for what he’s done.” 

“No. It is fair. I know you don’t know because you’ve never been in with anyone but yourself,” John starts, and your blood thrums hotly at his degradation of you, “But when you run in a gang, your actions affect everyone else. That’s how it works. If one of you fuck’s up, everyone pays the price. And in case you haven’t noticed, miss, there are a lot of people tryin’ to collect.” 

“I know a lot more about collectin’ than you realize,” you growl. 

John shakes his head, “This ain’t like what happened with you and your dad. This ain’t shit medicine or takin’ money when you can’t—” 

John doesn’t get to finish, as your fist collides with his jaw. 

You hear a few gasps, and also a small pop before everything falls still and silent. John falls to the ground, the sound of the ammo in his satchels clinking together as they crumple onto the grass with the man, and he looks up to you, eyes fiery. 

“You don’t know a god damn thing, Marston.” 

“What’s goin’ on here?” 

It’s Dutch, and he looks between the two of you, his brows pinched. You pant lightly, your hand still balled up into a fist at your side, your knuckles aching faintly as John looks up at you. 

“Nothin’,” he says, rubbing at his jaw and hiding most of his wince, “Nothin’ happened, Dutch.” 

Dutch doesn’t seem satisfied with that, and he looks back to you. 

“Ms. Broce—” he starts. 

“Ms. Broce, care to take a walk with me?” 

Both of your heads swivel at the sound of Hosea’s voice, and you calm some as the old man approaches, smiling softly at you as Dutch sputters a bit. 

“Hosea, now isn’t the time—” 

“It’s a perfect time,” Hosea says, throwing his arms apart and looking around, “Today’s the best day we’ve had in weeks with the weather!” 

Dutch frowns, the lines in his face as stark as his distaste, “Hosea, you know that ain’t what you meant.” 

“I know. But I overheard what our beloved John boy said. He earned his punch.” 

Dutch glances down to where John picks himself off of the ground, “Is that right, son?” 

“Yeah... Yeah, I guess.” 

“You only guess?” 

Hosea comes up to you, placing an undemanding hand on your shoulder to turn you away as Dutch puts his hands on his hips, eyes narrowing on John as they continue to talk. 

“Come on,” Hosea tells you, “Weather is too nice to spend it in the company with someone as sour as that.” 

You relent, following the old man as Dutch’s conversation with John grows slowly but surely into a small argument, and you force yourself to tune John out as Hosea guides you to where the trailheads start at the mouth of camp. 

“So,” he says, once the voices of the other men are mostly muffled with distance, “I heard that you were goin’ on this train robbery tonight.” 

Your scowl rests harshly on your face, and Hosea smiles somberly at its appearance, “Dutch made it clear that there wasn’t much choice on it. He said he’d keep me here to the laundry if I didn’t prove myself. Don’t know why I keep havin’ to...” 

“My dear, men often underestimate you, don’t they?” he starts, and your eyes shift to him as you walk through the trees, “It may be a problem here, but... use that to your advantage someday. Nothin’ is better than to prove them wrong when it matters most.” 

“I wish I could view it as somethin’ like that. But I can’t... Least, not when I keep facin’ it as I do,” you sigh, and the two of you turn, walking down the slight decline of the hill, going the same direction you’d taken earlier today while taking Jack to fish, “First Arthur, now Dutch _and_ John.” 

“Arthur may have gone about it the wrong way, but that boy isn’t above thinkin’ a woman can do somethin’ more than what society or men expect of her. If he truly didn’t want you to have gotten involved as you have, Arthur wouldn’t have gone and taught you what he has, and he wouldn’t have allowed you to pretty much become a common sight at his side. He was just scared somethin’ would happen to ya. And fear like that? You often suffocate someone in the process of tellin’ them how they should breathe.” 

As you reach the bottom of the incline, Hosea links arms with you, guiding you around from where the jut of Horseshoe Overlook raises from the ground. 

“I know,” you murmur, “It’s how my dad was before he died... Hell, even before he got sick... He always feared me pickin’ up guns, but he taught me when he realized I needed to know to protect myself... He always feared me leavin’ the house even just to go into the woods, but he let me go when he realized that he couldn’t keep me there forever, especially once he got sick...” 

“You know, the truth about fear is that you care for what is in danger. Either for yourself, or when it is about someone in your life,” Hosea quiets some, and you heed the wisdom in his words as he walks you further, “Bein’ scared for someone means that you don’t want them to get hurt. Arthur, he’s always cared about you. Ever since he told me he was goin’ to collect your debt that day, I knew he wasn’t going to do as Strauss or what anyone else expected.” 

As you reach the bottom of the ledge of Horseshoe Overlook, your eyes glance upward, following the expanse of the rock until you see the edge of camp resting at the top, and you hum thoughtfully. 

“But _you_ expected differently,” you say, lowering your eyes until they meet Hosea’s, the man’s brown eyes warm and crinkled at the edges in a way that speaks more than just a touch of time, “Why is that?” 

“I know Arthur better than anyone. I told you, he puts up a front. He thinks actin’ tough and like bein’ full of vigor means that he ain’t gotta use that brain of his... But, I know deep down, he thinks more than any of us,” Hosea sighs as he spots a tree stump, and he unloops your arm as he goes to sit on it, looking a bit more haggard than you’d like as he looks up to you, “I’m gettin' old, Ms. Broce. I shouldn’t have even gotten as many years as I have. But you don’t get to be my age and not realize just how frivolous some of the things you cared about so much in life were." 

You sit down in the grass beside him, taking in the new perspective of the land in front of you, about how much closer it seems down here. 

“John, he’s a bit of a fool. He’s got a low of growin’ up to do yet, especially when it comes to how he treats Abigail and Jack. But he’s young and dumb, and he hasn’t prioritized things beyond himself. He just needs time...” Hosea’s eyes lock on yours then, “Now, I ain’t excusin’ what he said to you. It was callous and not his place to do such a thing. But do understand that John is probably the wisest out of all of us veterans of this gang for one thing alone.” 

Confused, you look at Hosea then, “How is that possible?” 

“Because he isn’t blind. He never has been. Out of all of Dutch’s pupils, John has always been the one who didn’t take Dutch’s thoughts or feelings as his own. And while I love Arthur like a son, he’s too loyal to him for his own good...” 

You dip your head, your voice also lowering, “You’re right... I... I know it’s not exactly my place, and that I haven’t been here long, but... I don’t trust Dutch. I never have.” 

“It’s good that you don’t. A lot of us care about Dutch because he saved us in some way, helped us grow... And maybe at one point, it was sincere, but... now... It just feels like everything he’s done, everyone he’s helped... It’s like he saved those who had a purpose. I just don’t know what that purpose is anymore...” Hosea quiets some, and you look over to see the man looking troubled, his hands and fingers folding together and shifting like the thoughts in his mind as he continues, “I’ve run with Dutch longer than anyone. We’ve been at each other’s sides for as long as I can remember... We lived through Bessy, we lived through Annabelle... We saved Arthur and John. We raised them like they were our sons. And everyone else, it felt like we were buildin’ a family, not a gang... But now... Now I’m not so sure.” 

An eagle cries overhead, and Hosea looks up to where it glides in the air, its wings and remarkable feathers spread as it coasts on the wind. 

“I’ve always envied birds, with how easy things are for them. If there’s a problem, with just a flick of a wing, they can go wherever they want... It’s like when they told me there was dragons in the west when I was a kid. I wanted nothing more than to just take off and go there, get away from everythin’. I wanted to be free like them,” he lets his hands go to his knees, and he rubs at them with a slight wince, “My, how times and I have changed.” 

You look towards the flowers that blossom all around, and your hand moves over to one of the sprouts, your fingers tracing the stem until you reach to where it emerges from the soil. Carefully, you pick it, bringing it up to move in your hand, your fingertips tracing the soft petals. 

“I used to hate how my dad called me Wolf.” 

Hosea hums, his attention lingering on the flower as you go and pluck another. 

“Why is that?” 

You take the end of the second stem, and you begin to weave them together, the knuckles on your right hand already bruised like the purple hidden in the blooms you work with, “People often don’t like wolves... and I guess it’s warranted. They attack people, they don’t like what they don’t know,” you finish the first knot, and then you go back to the rest, plucking another and continuing, “But my dad told me that they attack because they fiercely protect what they care about. That they are hesitant because unlike a dog, their trust has to be earned...” 

“Sounds like someone I know,” Hosea says, solemnly grinning at you. 

“I guess the problem I’ve faced is just that, so far, everyone hasn’t come to trust a wolf.” 

“I wouldn’t say everyone...” you glance at Hosea then, “I trust you. Jack trusts you,” the old man tilts his head, “Arthur trusts you. And I would say that is the most important.” 

Frowning, you drop the unfinished chain of flowers into your lap, “Why’s that?” 

“Because he was the first person that _you_ trusted. That you still trust now,” your lips press together tightly, and Hosea chuckles quietly, “I’m old, but I'm not blind. I see the way you two are with one another, and I’ve seen it since he brought you back that day after being sent after you... I’m not sure how things will end with this gang, Wolf, but I know it won’t be kind to any of us... But, if there’s one thing I’d like to see, it’s that you two make it outta this. Together.” 

“Hosea—” 

“I told you, I’m not blind. Not about you and Arthur, and not about this gang. Dutch thinks that we can keep runnin’. That we can keep up this way of life as it dies out right from under us,” Hosea stands then, looking down at you, “Dutch can’t admit it, but I know that things are going to come to an end soon. How or when I don’t know. But I do know that the only thing I can do is try to save the people I can before it’s too late.” 

The old man crouches down in front of you, taking your hands within his own and frowning at the bruising along your knuckles, “You deserve better than what is to happen to us, Wolf. And Arthur, he deserves a chance at livin’ his life for himself for once...” 

“But that’s not with me—” 

“You know damn well that if he’s leavin’, it’s with you in tow,” Hosea tells you as he helps you off the ground. 

“How can you be so sure?” 

“Because you’re the only thing he’d consider leavin’ for.” 

Your eyes widen some, and Hosea takes a deep breath, looking back at the ledge of camp hanging above you both. 

“Come on. John’s probably cooled off enough for us to go back. Dutch does have a pretty firm hand at times... There’s no need to worry,” Hosea takes a deep breath, “It’ll all be over soon.” 

You look down towards your boots as you and the old man head back to camp, leaving behind the two flowers you picked. 

They are linked together on the ground, their fate now determined as they are connected. Soon they will dry out and wither with time, now to die in the place they once grew. Intertwined once by their beginning, and now by a choice in the end. 

And just as they had emerged from seeds in the soil to blossom and flourish amidst the weeds, they will find their end together. 

As sure as the world has turned for millennia, and as moving as their soft petals dancing with each other for the last time in the breeze.

**\---**

“Arthur and I will go through the main cabs while Charles keeps point. You’ll be keepin’ up with Sean—”

“So you’re gonna make me work with the one person who truly doesn’t know what they’re doin’? Are you tryin’ to be more obvious?” you cross your arms over the strap of your carbine, and you quirk a brow at the scraggly outlaw.

John gives you a look, “Sean forced himself into this job just like he weasels into everythin’ else. And yes, I’m puttin’ you with him because the last thing we need are two people I don’t trust workin’ the most important parts of the job—” 

“Whoa whoa whoa—” you and John look up abruptly as Arthur approaches, giving John a bit of glare as he reaches the small table John set up to strategize, “Ain’t no need to be so harsh, John.” 

“She ain’t been on a robbery before, Arthur.” 

“She helped me on a homestead job, back in Blackwater.” 

John huffs, “Still ain’t no train.” 

Arthur rolls his eyes lightly, looking more and more irritated, “John, quit throwin’ a god damn fit. It ain’t gonna do nothin’ but make this job harder. We just need to focus on finishin’ this so we can get this take and leave Horseshoe as soon as possible.” 

“That’s what I’m tryin’ to do. Wolf hasn’t held people at gunpoint and demanded they give them everythin’ they own. So, I’m makin’ her work the baggage cart with Sean.” 

Arthur pauses, humming, “That might just work.” 

You send Arthur a look, and he sighs. 

“Listen, Wolf. It’s not that I don’t want you there. You know this by now. But I think you’d find a problem with doin’ the dirtier part of the job.” 

You shake your head, relenting only a little, “Fine... But if Sean fucks up, I won’t hesitate to shoot him.” 

“Honestly, you’d be doin’ us a favor,” John hums, and then he looks over his rendition of Scarlett Meadows and the tracks that run through it, “Now. Mary-Beth said it’s comin’ durin’ the night. So I reckon that we ride over to where Arthur stashed the wagon at a little spot by Dewberry Creek once we’re done here. Then, we rest there until it’s late evenin’, and we take the wagon and place it on the tracks here, where it intersects with the road.” 

John’s finger is placed at the position on the map, and Arthur nods. 

“It’s as easy as unhookin’ the horses and waitin’,” John leans back then, looking at you both, “Most of us will hide in the treeline, outta sight. And once the train sees that oil wagon, we come out. Arthur and I will work the passengers, and Wolf, you and Sean will head to the back and go through all of what‘s in that baggage car. If Mary-Beth is right, we’ll be hittin’ some upper socialites and it can be a quick, easy buck for all of us.” 

“Are there any guards?” you ask. 

“Mary-Beth said the train is mostly gonna be unguarded. At least while they pass through here. They should be far enough from Emerald Ranch and Rhodes for help to come right when they need it. We should have enough time to pillage what we want from those bastards and run with it.” 

You hum, face pinched as you think it over, “That just doesn’t sound right... A train full of wealthy people almost crossin’ through Lemoyne at night, unguarded? That sounds too good to be true.” 

John’s eyes narrow at you, “Well, as strange as it sounds, that’s what is happenin’. I know you ain’t done much work of this nature, but you’d be surprised at how many times a job is possible because people are stupid.” 

“And I’m sure there have been a lot of times that the job was impossible because _you_ were stupid about it—” 

“ _Hey,_ ” Arthur puts his arms between you two, frowning at the way you and John seem to almost want to go to blows under the oak tree right then and there, “Cut that shit out _now._ If we’re gonna be able to even try and do this job, we can’t be at each other’s throats every god damn second.” 

You step back some, your breath hissing through your nose as you look at Arthur, “I ain’t the problem.” 

“Wolf—” 

“I don’t wanna be a part of this as I am just as much as you don’t want me to be,” you point a finger at John, “But if I gotta be here, then so fuckin’ be it. And I ain’t gonna be talked down to every second by you. Especially if I’m just sayin’ that this doesn’t feel right.” 

“What you gonna do? Punch me again for it?” 

Arthur looks between you two, his face screwed up, “Do what now?” 

John’s lips press together tightly, and you huff, shaking your head. 

Arthur looks to John then, and his eyes narrow at the bruise forming slowly but surely on his jaw. And despite finding him angry about it or disappointed in you, he laughs, loud and entertained as John’s expression only sours further. 

But you, you look to Arthur, confused at how happy he seems to be at the sight of John’s battle wound inflicted by yours truly. 

“Ah, she got you good, didn’t she?” he cackles, and he comes over, slapping a hand down onto your shoulder with pride, “What I would pay to see that!” 

“You ain’t gonna tell her she shouldn’t do that again?” 

“I’m a firm believer that if you got hit, you deserved it,” Arthur’s laughter dies down then, “And I can see she was rather firm when she did hit you, so you definitely did.” 

You offer a weak smile as Arthur’s eyes move to you, light and lively as John curses under his breath. 

“Well, enough celebratin’ it. We need to head out.” 

Growing serious, Arthur’s hand falls away from you, and he watches as John folds up his small, shitty drawing of Scarlett Meadows to place in his pocket, “Sean’s already at the wagon, and Charles left camp a little bit before I did, so he should be too.” 

“Looks like we’re ridin’ together, then,” John mutters. 

The three of you head to your horses, passing by Dutch’s tent. He looks after the three of you, but you pointedly ignore him, even as the man calls out to you all. 

“The train better be worth it, John!” 

“We’ll do what we can, Dutch!” 

“Good! And Ms. Broce, I do expect to hear you’ve done well!” 

You cringe some, and Arthur catches it. Dutch disappears into his tent as you saddle up on D’or, Arthur and his Walker at your side. 

“Hey, you okay?” 

“He’s just botherin’ me a little, is all.” 

John huffs then, “Not surprised. Dutch’s eye wanders every so often, and I think you caught it.” 

Arthur’s face crumples a bit, and he sends John a nasty look as he gets onto his Walker, “Dutch ain’t gone and done that.” 

“Then you’re in denial, or simply wantin’ to stay blind,” John mutters as he turns Old Boy, “He’s gettin' tired of Molly. They just keep on fightin’, meanin’ that Dutch is growin’ less and less enamored with her. And you know how fickle he gets once that first bit of interest wanes.” 

As you ride between Arthur and John as you head towards the road, Arthur shakes his head, “He may be gettin' tired of Molly, but he hasn’t cut her off yet.” 

“Oh, he’s plannin’ to soon. I can see him lookin’ at Mary-Beth sometimes. Well, when he ain’t lookin’ at you, Wolf.” 

You swallow, “Thanks for that...” 

“Now John, you don’t know what you’re on about—” 

“I can’t tell if it’s because you don’t wanna admit you may have competition, or because you can’t believe that Dutch is gettin' greedier by the day,” John snips as your cheeks burn hotly, “You know how he is with women! He picks ‘em up when they’re somethin’ shiny and new, and once they tarnish with time, he’s done with them and wants to find somethin’ else that’s shiny n’ new!” 

“If that’s the logic of it, then he should also be lookin’ at Mrs. Adler,” Arthur growls. 

John snorts, “No he won’t. That Adler woman would rather shoot Dutch than sleep with him. And Dutch knows that. ‘Sides. Her bein’ a widow means she’s used goods.” 

“That ain’t a kind way to speak of Sadie,” you murmur. 

“It ain’t my perspective,” John explains, looking over at you and a stewing Arthur, “I’ve heard her talkin’ to Abigail. She is one driven woman. And if there’s one thing Dutch doesn’t like, it’s a woman who can think for herself and knows what she wants. Especially when it doesn’t align with him.” 

You scoff then, “Then he should steer clear of me.” 

“Don’t think he’s realized that yet. Dutch gets in over his head quickly, and he can lose sight of what’s right in front of him for what he pictures in his head. That’s why we’re in this mess that we are now.” 

“You seem to think you know an awful lot, Marston,” Arthur hisses. 

John doesn’t exactly rise to Arthur’s bite, instead, shooting a glance at the other outlaw as you work your horses up the road, “Dutch was like my father. But you and I both know that bein’ a father doesn’t always mean that they’re somethin’ good. Takin’ time away from the gang, it felt like it was the first time I could breathe—” 

“Oh, there you go, talkin’ about your little vacation away from us,” Arthur’s knuckles grow white as he grips onto his Walker’s reins, “You know, I often have to ask myself why you came back after runnin’ off in the first place.” 

Your face twists with confusion, and you look between them both. John hangs his head a little, and Arthur only grows angrier. 

“Oh, you don’t know what happened, do you, Wolf? Little Johnny Marston over here ran off on us not too long ago. Left behind Abigail and Jack, and his god damn family before that,” Arthur shakes his head, “We still don’t know where he went, but he just popped up outta nowhere one day like everythin’ was gonna be fine all because he couldn’t believe Jack was his.” 

“You don’t know what you’re god damn on about, Morgan!” 

You feel the tension between the two men grow, almost as palpable then as it is ferocious. 

“I do, you dumbass! You come back outta nowhere and you are still treatin’ that boy as though you never did! He even told me and Wolf today that you do, and he started cryin’ rivers over how he thinks you don’t care about him!” 

John’s eyes are cold as he looks past you to glare at Arthur, “I do care about him! It just ain’t so easy to just flip myself over like I’m some switch, Arthur! And it sure as hell ain’t easy when you try and treat him like he’s yours when you damn well know that he isn’t Isa—” 

“ _You shut your god damn mouth,_ ” Arthur growls. 

You shudder a bit at the fury in his words, and your eyes shift uncomfortably over to John. 

The man has his thin lips pressed together tightly, the flesh turning pale from the pressure as his ire behind his eyes only grows. The air feels heavy and cumbersome, and you try to look over to Arthur to take in his state. 

The man is angry. And not just like any other time you’ve seen. This... this anger. It’s something new. Something he’s carried with him for some time. Old and deep, it is, with the way his eyes darken and set hard upon the road ahead of him, and your lips part as your breath catches in your throat. 

“Arthur, I shouldn’t have gone there—” 

“No. You shouldn’t have. But ya did,” the outlaw’s voice is like barbed wire, catching and gritting on itself with his barely quelled rage, “Just shut your god damn mouth while you’re ahead of yourself.” 

John does as told then, turning his head towards the main road and glaring at it as it passes underneath his horse’s hooves. Old Boy seems to sense the upset, somewhat throwing his head back and neighing, ears flicked back as he does so. Underneath you, D’or shifts her head, but she remains steadfast, and you give her a pat for it. 

Lord knows you both have to power through what is going on around you. 

Thankfully, it’s not a long trip. The three of you arrive during twilight, and you happen upon the wagon, hearing Sean before you ever see him. 

“Oi! You’s just a wee bit jealous that you don’t get to be as strappin’ as good ol’ Sean Maguire!” 

“I don’t think you know what jealousy truly means,” Charles’ deadpan voice reaches your ears as you ride up. 

D’or slows as you take in the worn-down cabin, and the oil wagon hidden beside it. Charles and Sean are leaning against it, with Sean sharpening his knife and Charles looking miserable while trying to smoke. You pity Charles some then, knowing how the man is. He enjoys peace and quiet, and Sean is the exact opposite of what he finds tolerable. 

“Hey! There ya finally is! Me and Charles were about to go gray waitin’ for ya!” 

Charles sends you a pleading look, and a small smile causes your lips to quirk as Sean approaches and bows in front of you. 

“We haven’t gotten a chance to work yet, m’lady, but it’s a pleasure to finally get the chance!” 

“Pleasure isn’t the word I’d use, but I guess I’m interested in seein’ how this all may go south,” you reply. 

Sean pouts lightly, and Charles’ lips quirk as he steps away, tossing the butt of his spent cigarette to the ground to be crushed out by his boot. At your sides, John and Arthur remain peculiarly quiet, and when you glance over to Arthur, the man seems to be glaring daggers at the Irishman. 

“Oi! Morgan! Been a minute since we got ta be up in arms wit one another!” Sean grins, the expression incomplete with his missing teeth— coupled with his personality, he’s almost like a small child who is eagerly awaiting the tooth fairy, “Think you’re ready to share the floor with some new blood, old man?” 

“Sean, cut the crap, will ya?” 

Sean waves a dismissive hand, making a sad noise at Arthur’s true lack of rebuttal, “You’re no fun. Guess you’re about to be like Uncle, complain’ ‘bout his back and makin’ up stories of things ya wished ya did while you was young.” 

“I’ll be talkin’ about how I shoulda left your ass with them bounty hunters if you keep runnin’ ya mouth, boy,” Arthur warns. 

Despite Arthur’s verbal glare of teeth, Sean laughs, clapping Arthur on the shoulder and looking as bright as his fiery red hair, “I love ya, Arthur Morgan! Truly I does! You’re like me da, except not if that makes sense.” 

“You never do...” Arthur mutters. 

Clapping his hands together, Sean takes a step back to regard you and the others, “So! Now that we’re all here, what’s da game plan?” 

Charles crosses his arms and looks to John, and the black-haired cowboy pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“Are you sure you have to come along, Sean?” 

“Of course I do! Been a minute since I’ve seen some action! Not since ya boys left me in Blackwater, and them bastards tried to kill me before little, ol’ Arthur finished ‘em off! I’m like a beast in a cage, man! I gotta get out once n’ a while!” 

Charles hums, “Think I prefer knowing you are caged.” 

“You’re as bitter as vinegar, ol’ Charles! Rude and as prickly as a got damn cactus, ya is!” 

“Enough,” John ends their bickering, and he lets out a heavy breath before touching the side of the oil wagon, “We’re all gonna ride on this, and our horses are gonna follow. Arthur and I know the spot where we’re gonna plant the wagon. It’s in a good spot where the conductor can see it in enough time to stop, and where we got cover in the trees to hide out in.” 

“Who’s stoppin’ the train?” Sean asks. 

“I am.” 

Your attention moves to Arthur, and he raises a brow at the way Sean saddens at the lost opportunity. 

“The rest of us are gonna hide in the brush n’ trees until it’s stopped. Then, Charles, with you keepin’ an eye out, me and Arthur are gonna hit the passengers, while Sean, you and Wolf are gonna hit the baggage car.” 

Sean takes a step forward, his expression not as thrilled as he was only moments before, “Hold up just a tic— I just get to rob handbags and suitcases? What kinda—” 

“Be grateful you get any part in this at all, considerin’ you forced your way into the job. It’s either that, or you can keep a lookout for us. At camp.” 

Sean scowls harshly, spitting onto the ground before muttering, “You Englishmen are downright dreadful.” 

John ignores him, and he continues, looking between you and Charles as he speaks, “Should be easy n’ clean tonight. If we’re lucky, we can work through what there is pretty fast without drawin’’ attention to ourselves while we’re lootin’ everythin’. Any questions?” 

Nodding, Charles replies, “Nah. Sounds good.” 

“Can’t think of any,” you say. 

“Good. Arthur, you’re drivin’. Rest of you, hop on the wagon wherever you can.” 

As Arthur goes to the driver’s side of the wagon’s front, he tells you, “Wolf, get on the bench.” 

“Why?” 

“Just do it.” 

Sighing, you do as instructed, going to the opposite end of the bench and climbing up to take a seat on it. John and Charles climb on your side of the wagon, while Sean takes Arthur’s. They lean off the sides, hanging on with their arms as Arthur whips the reins to get the draft horses pulling the wagon moving. 

“Whistle for your horses, we’ll have ‘em tail behind us,” John instructs. 

Your whistle sounds off with the others, and you hear D’or’s small whinny of an answer as she and the other horses trot up to the back of the wagon, keeping pace as Arthur gets it onto the road. 

Under the moonlight, the world is cast in a deep, opaque blue, and your eyes linger on the road as Arthur works the wagon along with ease. A raccoon shrieks as you ride upon it, eyes flashing for a moment before he scurries off into the underbrush. 

And, that’s when Sean believes it’s a fine opportunity to talk. 

“So, Ms. Broce, how come you gotta come on this job without a fuss and I had to fight my way in here?” 

You snort, not looking back at him as you set your hands on your lap, “Trust me, there was a fuss.” 

“Well, certainly not one to the degree of mine,” Sean starts, and the three other men groan collectively as the Irishman starts ranting, “Say, I’ve been runnin’ with you lot for a good moment or two now, and all ya does is treat poor ol’ Sean like a tick on your show dog! It’s downright shameful!” 

“I believe the point of this is to remain quiet and undetected, Sean,” Charles says tiredly. 

Sean ignores him, continuing, “Not that I’m tryna blow you under, Ms. Broce. You’re a helluva a woman! One of the best!” 

Frowning lightly, you don’t miss the way Arthur grips the reins tighter than necessary, “Thanks...” 

“But, you lot nearly lose me in Blackwater, and then you come and save me like you don’t even want to in the first place! Why, it don’t make a lick a sense!” 

“Sean, I _will_ shoot you if you do not shut up,” John huffs. 

Sean doesn’t take him seriously, making a sound of disappointment on the side of the wagon, “You know, this is a lot like when my da used to say—” 

He’s cut off by the three other men collectively telling him to not speak of such a thing, and you have to hold back a snicker at the unity they find in their outcry. 

“Fine! You lot are a buncha sad ones, anyway!” 

“Since we do seem to be talkin’ a little, I was meaning to ask you somethin’, Ms. Broce. And I don’t mean it in a degrading way,” Charles starts, “But why are you comin’ along?” 

You look down at your lap, and you can feel all of their eyes lingering on you before you even open your mouth to reply. 

“Dutch said I had to,” you murmur, “Told me I had to give him a reason to trust me, otherwise he’d stick me back on laundry with Grimshaw.” 

“That is as fun as it sounds, I’m sure,” the man sympathizes. 

“Yeah... It ain’t great... But Dutch, he also said he absolved my debt with Strauss. But I think that was more strategic than a courtesy.” 

“How come?” 

You hum, watching as Arthur takes a turn in the road, “Because I’d be in debt with him in the sense that he did me a favor. Reason I ran with y’all in the beginnin’ is that I owed that money. Fifty dollars, it ain’t a light amount of money.” 

Charles whistles, “Had no idea it was that much.” 

“I borrowed it because my father was sick... But he died the day that Arthur came to collect. I didn’t have anythin’. What did have value was already sold n’ gone to try and help my dad long before I even had Strauss darken my doorstep. So we worked out an agreement with Strauss for me to work off my debt, slowly but surely.” 

John pipes in then, “Pretty sure Arthur threatened Strauss.” 

“Still worked out a deal with him, didn’t we?” Arthur mutters. 

“But either way, here I am. I guess that my escapades with Arthur caught Dutch’s attention, and with the Pinkertons as close as they are, he seems to want to make sure I can be trusted to handle myself.” 

“Pinkertons?” Charles asks. 

It’s Arthur who speaks this time, “Me n’ Wolf was down by the Dakota River right outside camp. We had Jack with us, we took him to fish... They approached us outta nowhere. Told me they got Mac after Blackwater, killed him tryna to get answers ‘bout us. Asked me to turn in Dutch for ‘em.” 

“They’re sick bastards,” Charles growls. 

“You took Jack to fish?” 

You turn around to see John looking between you two, eyes pinched and expression uncertain, and it’s then that your stomach truly starts to sink. 

“Yeah. Abigail asked us to,” Arthur says with no hesitancy, and it’s then that you see how Arthur seems to revel in the way that John gets pissed at his words, “Told me she felt he was bein’ suffocated while in camp and needed somethin’ fun to do.” 

John remains pointedly quiet, and that tension from earlier returns with a vengeance. 

“We’re here,” Arthur says, slowing the wagon down until it rests even across the tracks, “Come on, move quick. She can be comin’ any time now.” 

You hear the three men hanging on the side drop off, the gravel amidst the tracks crunching under their feet as they land. You glance to Arthur, feeling your nerves ramp up as you grip onto the strap of your carbine across your chest. 

“Arthur...” you start, and the outlaw’s eyes meet yours, “Stay safe...” 

“I will,” he tells you. 

You go to jump off, but the outlaw stops you by gripping onto your wrist. 

You look back at him, his thumb directly over your pulse point, and he must feel how it starts to pick up in tempo as he reaches into his satchel. 

“Take this,” he says, getting out his black neckerchief and handing it to you, placing it into the palm of the hand he gently holds by the wrist, “Put it over your face, okay?” 

You fingers close in around the black fabric, and you nod as Arthur removes a bandana alongside it. 

“Everyone, go ahead and cover your faces.” 

You hop down the exact time that Arthur does, your boots landing heavily onto the gravel as your eyes peer down the length of the track until it disappears across the slight hillside about a mile or so off. You keep staring down its curved length, taking the ends of the neckerchief and covering your nose and mouth with it. 

Your breaths feel hot against the material, and you hear the sounds of the draft horses being untethered and spurred off as Arthur rounds the front of the disabled wagon to meet up with you and the others. 

It’s then that you feel it, the tracks vibrating under your feet. You look down to see where the tip of your boot rests on the steel, and small bits of gravel around it shakes and displace as you hear the train whistle not far off in the distance. 

“Here she comes,” Arthur says lowly, taking his own foot off the track as he fixes his bandana over his nose, “Get in the woods! All of ya!” 

As you watch the outlaw go back to the wagon, you stop, turning to him. 

“What about you, Arthur?” 

“I’m gonna make sure she slows,” he says in all but a growl, and you watch as he sets himself on the top of the oil barrel, legs spread as he takes his repeater off of his shoulder to hold it in both hands. 

The outlaw radiates nothing but power as he cocks it, the gun clicking as the narrow view of his eyes from under the brim of his hat evident as he looks at you. 

“Go on!” 

You scurry away, catching back up with the group to hide in the brush amidst the shadows. 

The faint glow of the train light begins to illuminate the rocks lining the curve as it takes the tracks, and you all but slide into the brush beside Charles as the front of the train appears in view. The light of it is as blinding as it is wide, casting through the leaves and catching over your faces as it passes. 

Readying your carbine, you bring it forth, your hands holding tightly onto the metal and wood as your heart rackets away in your chest. 

But most of all, it illuminates Arthur in bright light, the oil wagon glinting as harshly as the barrel of his repeater as the conductor slams on the breaks. 

The metallic shriek of the wheels locking up hurts your ears, and you hiss lightly, covering them as sparks shooting off of the tracks spray out in a mist of fiery embers. 

The train whistles its horn, blaring and vibrating in the air as it thunders to a stop, wheels grinding and catching on the tracks as it finally starts to slow. 

Your eyes dart to where Arthur remains steadfast and unphased, his gun still in his hands as the train still barrels towards him as it decelerates. 

Your breath catches, hitting in your throat as you fear the worst. You want to shout at Arthur to fucking jump down and to stop being a dumbass, but a hand on your shoulder stops you. 

It’s Charles, and he gives your shoulder a light squeeze. 

“He’ll be fine, don’t worry!” he says loud enough over the chaos for you to hear. 

You nod once at him, letting him know you’ve heard him before you look back to where Arthur stands in front of the slowing train. 

Just barely, it stops a few feet before the tip of its grate hits the wagon, and your breath is as shaky as it is hissed as it lurches to a stop. 

The conductor hops off, looking to Arthur and waving his hands, “What on earth is goin’ on here?” 

Before Arthur does or says anything, you happen to see Charles sneaking out of the brush, and he quickly hits the back of the man’s head with the butt of his colt, knocking him out. 

“Nothin’ good...” the man murmurs. 

The rest of you emerge from the trees, and when Arthur catches sight of you pushing through the bushes, he finally hops down off of the top of the wagon, jogging until he meets up with you, John, and Sean. 

“Alright. Make it quick. Sean, Wolf, get the baggage car as we planned. Me and John are gonna work the fine folks takin’ a ride today,” John grabs his bag from his gun belt while Arthur nods to Charles, “Yell if you see anythin’. Don’t even care if it turns out to be that god damn raccoon.” 

“Got it.” 

“Come on, little Wolf,” Sean nudges you to move then, “Let’s get on wit it.” 

You hold your carbine tightly, jogging with Sean to head to the baggage cars at the end of the train. Thankfully, they kept the load light, and it seems to mostly be wealthy travelers on the train than any precious cargo as you come upon the last car. 

You hear shouting down the way, the sound of John’s gritty voice demanding for money or valuables, alongside Arthur’s fiery drawl as Sean nods to the second to last car. 

“Take that one, and I’ll get this one, ya?” 

“Okay...” 

You both get onto the train, and you walk into the car, taking in the piles of luggage and bags stowed away. You don’t hesitate, quickly grabbing one bag and searching through its contents. After saving a platinum silver pocket watch, and a small clutch full of some jewelry, you keep the bag, using it for your take as you work through all of the items. 

A nasty feeling settles in your stomach as you do so, tossing out people’s clothing, from adult to children’s items, and the occasional picture as well. You try to ignore it — to simply focus on the task at hand, and to disregard the lack of humanity in it. 

Your bag weighs heavy as you close the last suitcase, and you take a deep breath, closing it and setting it into your satchel at your side. It’s not massive, nor anything impressive, but it still has heft as you walk, your satchel hitting your side. 

“Sean, I got everythin’ from here. You done?” 

“Yeah,” Sean says, passing by a cabinet and looking down at the small satchel he’s scrounged up, “Think we’ve got a good bit here—” 

The cabinet door flies open, and a man jumps out. He’s armed, taking the back of his repeater and hitting Sean in the head, causing him to fall over in a cry of pain. He doesn’t hesitate, raising his gun to aim at you as you pull the trigger on your carbine. 

The bullet hits him in the jaw, and you wince at the sickening crack of bone as blood spatters on the side of the train car, and his body falls heavily onto the wooden floors below. Sean curses, standing up and brandishing his Colt, and you can tell that the hit did a number on him by the way he blinks and seems disoriented. 

“You okay?” you ask. 

“Little shit jumped outta nowhere,” he hisses, coming out to lean on some of the railings at the mouth of the train car, “God... I'm seein’ double here.” 

“Wolf!” 

You look, seeing Arthur sprinting up to the last car, his breath heaving as he digs his heels in the dirt to slow. John is right behind him, taking in the sight of smoke at the end of your gun barrel. His gaze narrows, but Arthur coming up to you breaks your focus off on the man. 

Arthur’s eyes are wide, and he looks between you and Sean before taking in the sight of the dead guard at his feet. 

“What happened?” 

“He was hidin’ in the cabinet. He about knocked out Sean and tried to shoot me, so I did him the honors first,” you exhale, and Arthur’s face pinches. 

“Well, thankfully he’s all we’ve got to deal with—” 

“We’ve got company!” Charles shouts. 

Arthur curses, and you watch as a few lanterns appear from in the woods. Men on horses come forth, brandishing guns of all kinds, and all of which are aimed at you lot. Arthur hops into the car, pushing you inside as Sean scrambles past the body of the dead guard. 

He presses you into the wall, panting roughly with his arms nearly bracing you. You heart all but stutters, and Arthur curses as he leans back, readying his repeater as the men approach the train. 

“You god damn thieves get out here right now!” the man shouts, and you see Arthur peeking out of the doorway of the car as the sound of his horse slowing to a stop reaches your ears. 

“Why should we? There’s only five of ya!” 

There’s a small window at your side in the car, and you manage to look out of it indirectly. And it’s then that you see other lanterns and men approach. 

“Think there’s a little more than that!” the man snarks. 

“Me and my goddamn mouth,” Arthur mutters, checking how his repeater is loaded quickly before nodding to you, “Just like at the cabin, yeah?” 

“Guess so,” you hiss, and you go for it. 

You knock the glass out of the small window, quickly taking a shot and hitting a man off of his horse. Arthur follows soon after, shooting the man who had been yelling at you all right in the throat as the others begin to fire back. 

The wood of the cart splinters apart and vibrates at your back as it is hounded with bullets, but you make your shots as quick as they are precise, and you clear a few men out in a short amount of time before Arthur pulls at your arm. 

“Come on, they’re mostly on that side ‘cause of this small rock wall here,” he tells you, “We need to whistle for the horses n’ run for it.” 

“We ain’t gonna kill ‘em all?” 

Arthur looks out into the woods, and it’s then that you see others approaching. 

“As much as I’d love to send all these bastards to the undertaker, I ain’t got enough bullets or time to do so,” Arthur slips out of the doorway then, and you follow as he hops out onto the other side of the train, “God, why are there so many of these bastards?” 

You’re about to reply when you take a look at the side of the car, and your stomach drops as you make out its finely-painted lettering. 

“Of god damn course,” you hiss. 

Arthur makes a small face of bewilderment until he takes in sight of the name you had just read, and he curses. 

“Goddamn Cornwall,” he spits on the ground before continuing, “Figures...” 

You’re about to ask what Arthur wants to do when you hear shuffling at your side, and Sean is panting as he looks at you both. 

“They’re everywhere, Mogan,” he pants. 

“Well, let’s make sure John and Charles are still alive—” 

There’s clambering at the car again, and you raise your carbine only to aim it at John and Charles. 

“Shit, like termites outta the woodwork ya is!” Sean shouts. 

“Whistle for the horses. We gotta get the hell outta here,” Arthur growls. 

Collectively, you all whistle, the sound shrill over the gunfire. You hear a few answering whinnies, and you nod to Arthur to where there is a small break in the rocks to climb up on. 

“We go up there, get the horses, and run.” 

Nodding, Arthur is the first to go, “Sounds like a plan.” 

The lot of you run up the slight incline, passing through a few trees and coming up at the top. The men are now boarding the train, thinking you are hiding in its cars as you attempt to slip out to get your horses. 

D’or is the first one you see, being followed by everyone else as you rush to meet her. You thank her under your breath, and you hop onto her saddle, quickly spurring her as the others manage to mount. 

“They ain’t here! Start searchin’ the woods!” 

“Shit, just gun ’em!” Arthur yells at you and the others, and you force D’or into her fastest gallop as quickly as you can. 

You and Arthur take the head of the group, and you steer clear of the road as you hear the guards attempting to follow you as you ride away. 

“Keep off the roads! We’ll ride till we lose ‘em!” 

D’or breathes harshly, her light hair moving manically in the wind as you spur her, lowering yourself to her tightly as you ride beside Arthur. The others remain steadfast behind you, and the sound of their hooves match the tempo of your heart as you quickly leave the train and its mess behind. 

It doesn’t take long, not with it being night, and the guards scrambling to even find a direction to head off in, but soon, as you come up near Flatneck Station, you all begin to slow. The sounds of the men have been lost to the night, and all you can hear are the crickets and the other nocturnal life going about their way. 

D’or’s nostrils flare as you get her to a stop, and you pat her neck with appreciation as she brings her head a little higher, working the bit in her mouth slightly. You see Sean come up on his silver American Standardbred, Enis, and you sigh as John and Charles slow Old Boy and Taima. 

“Think we lost ’em," Arthur comments softly, looking at you all form a circle around one another. 

“What in the hell was that?” John’s dark eyebrows draw over his eyes, and he tugs his bandana off of his face, “That was way too many men for just an average passenger train.” 

“I can tell you why! Turns out we are gonna be good friends with Cornwall, with us just robbin’ another one of his trains!” 

John curses, shaking his head, “Course. This is the last thing we need right now...” 

Despite John’s grumbling, Sean removes his red bandana from his face, chirping as Enis shuffles underneath him, “Oi! Think I did pretty good lads, don’t you think?” 

“Wolf had to save ya if I saw things correctly.” 

Sean frowns slightly, “You cut me deep, Morgan. But it woulda happened to any one of ya!” 

“But of course it happened to you,” Arthur chuckles. 

John rolls eyes his lightly, and he steers Old Boy some, “Well, bruised egos or not, we gotta split up. Those bastards are probably still lookin’ for us. Best we don’t linger.” 

“Everyone, take a long route back, make sure we’re not bein’ followed.” 

As you go to grab D’or’s reins, Arthur looks to you. 

“Ride with me?” he asks. 

“Yeah. Of course.” 

John spurs Old Boy off without another word, and Charles looks between you both as you and Arthur both remove the fabric obscuring your faces. 

“See you back at camp.” 

You wave the other man off, while Sean sends Arthur a sad, poutful look. 

“Just admit, ya love me, Arthur!” he shouts at him as he maneuvers Enis in an opposite direction. 

“Begrudgingly. Now get gone!” 

Sean rides off, and Arthur looks to you. 

“Come on.” 

He spurs his Walker forward, and you matching his speed, working D’or at a manageable gallop as you ride through the fields somewhat adjacent to the road about fifteen feet to your side. Arthur glances to you then, his eyes moving to where your satchel is full from your take during the robbery. 

“How are ya feelin’?” he asks. 

You hum, looking at the tall grass before you as D’or works through it, “Ain’t gonna lie, it didn’t feel great. Lord knows how it woulda felt workin’ the passengers.” 

“It ain’t easy your first time,” Arthur admits. 

“Is there gonna be another one?” 

Arthur sighs, shaking his head lightly, “I don’t know. Dutch sent you with us for a reason. I agree with you that absolving your debt wasn’t just outta kindness. Dutch always has a way for workin’ situations to his favor, whether the odds are on his side, or you owe him one. I ain’t blind enough to not see that,” you can see the conflict within him as plain as the moon hanging palely overhead from where it is about to disappear behind the mountains, and the man grimaces as he continues, “I think that this was more than just to prove you could be trusted. I just don’t know what exactly he intends for.” 

“He was a bit pressin’, after you left the tent...” you admit. 

Something flashes through Arthur’s eyes, and he glances to you, “He didn’t try to do anythin’, did he?” 

“Well, he pretty much forced me to do this job. Granted, laundry ain’t the worst, but I have a sneaky suspicion that there was more to that than just bein’ stuck washin’ clothes...” 

“How do you figure that?” 

He isn’t doubting you, he’s just genuinely curious then as you both round the hillside by Bard’s Crossing. 

“He talked about my debt specifically, about why I haven’t paid it... I told him I had the money, that there was no need for a deal. But instead of lettin’ me pay, he said he absolved the debt, so I had to go. There really wasn’t any room for me to say no.” 

“Ah,” Arthur grows quiet for a moment, thinking over your words, “I... I’m not sure what to tell ya, Wolf. Except for that things are changin’. I’ve run with Dutch almost all my life, and honestly... He ain’t felt the same the past few months. Even since before you came along... I don’t know what’s gone on, what exactly is the same and what’s different, but... He doesn’t seem like the man he used to be at times.” 

With a softness to your voice, you tell Arthur, “Hosea thinks the same thing...” 

“I know he does... He’s been very vocal about his growin’ distaste for Dutch’s choices and way of runnin’ things as of late. And honestly, I don’t know what side to choose... ‘Cause Dutch, there are some days it feels like he’s back. Like nothin’ has changed and he’s still the same man I ran with at the start of all this. But the rest of the time? . . . I just don’t know.” 

The Dakota River runs faithfully at your side, and you look over the winding length of it, the way the moonlight glints of its waters as it bubbles in the opposite direction to where it feeds back into Flat Iron Lake. 

“I don’t know if I’m ready to do this all the way through. I don’t think I ever can be,” you admit to the outlaw then, and he glances to you as you ride beside one another, “I can’t shoot a man knowin’ that the only reason I put a bullet in him is because he didn’t give me the money in time, or because he was gonna turn me in. I can’t even hold up my gun as a farce. ‘Cause they don’t know. They don’t know whether I’m gonna kill ‘em, or let them live. I can’t stand for that kinda thing.” 

“I won’t ask ya to. Dutch may have forced you into this, but I’ll make sure he doesn’t do so again. Next time, if there is one, you only get involved by choice. I’ll explain that to him once we get back.” 

Growing a bit sheepish, you murmur, “You don’t have to—” 

“Nah. I gotta put my foot down whenever and wherever I can... If... If this is goin’ the direction it seems to be goin’ in, I don’t want it to seem like I waited last second to speak up... Especially if Dutch is tryin’ to make you do things you aren’t morally okay with. I know we’re outlaws, but we have codes, both in the gang and amongst ourselves. The point is that we aren’t like Colm and his men, who just kill and steal without any sense of restraint. And even if that means one of us isn’t okay with what we do, then that’s fine,” Arthur looks to you then, gaze heavy and serious, “’Cause this ain’t just a gang to me, Wolf. This— it’s a family. _You’re_ family.” 

You swallow thickly, and you avert your eyes from him before that gaze becomes too much. 

“Dutch ain’t gonna do this to ya again,” Arthur tells you as you reach the one crossroads you’d been at earlier that day to take Jack to fish, and Arthur turns his Walker down it as you begin to head back to camp, “If he does, let me know.” 

“I will...” 

You ride then in silence, heading up the hill to quickly come upon the few dirt trails leading into camp. You pass Javier on his watch, and he greets you both with a smile and a nod of his head as you ride past. 

“Good to see you back, Lobo!” he tells you, then offering a clipped whistle to Arthur, saying, “She must’ve done good, Oso!” 

“That she did,” Arthur grins back, and you flush some as you come upon the hitching posts. 

You see John already talking to Dutch from where he sits at the side of his tent, and by the man’s soured expression, you know the conversation must not have been great as you hitch D’or and head that way with Arthur. 

“—this ain’t like other times before, Dutch,” you hear John’s gritty voice pick up in volume as you approach, and you try not to squirm as Dutch’s dark eyes move to you, “It’s almost like they were waitin’ for us to try n’ rob that train.” 

“Well, I want to know if it was a decent take,” Dutch says, much to John’s annoyance as you and Arthur stop in front of the other man, and his eyes finally shift to Arthur as he moves his cigar languidly among his fingers, “How she’d do?” 

John waves a hand, storming off and leaving you to glare at Dutch then. 

“How about I just show you?” you snip lightly. 

Dutch’s thick brows pull closer in a light scowl as you open your satchel, removing the clutch bag you’d taken and that had everything you saw of value shoved inside. You practically shove it against Dutch’s chest, and you frown as he grabs ahold of it, his eyes widening some. 

“There are things from money clips to jewelry in there.” 

“My my, Ms. Broce, you—” 

“Dutch, we need to have a talk,” Arthur interrupts. 

The man tilts his head at the outlaw, and he hums, setting the clutch by his feet before looking back up at the man. 

“What’s plaguin’ you, son?” 

“Well, John wasn’t kiddin’ for one. That train job. It was off. Wolf pointed out that it was strange, and we shoulda listened,” Arthur tells him then, and Dutch glances to you, “We were practically ambushed. There were way more men than just your average patrol or hired guard. They knew this train was gonna be robbed.” 

Dutch hums, returning his attention to Arthur as he brings his cigar closer to his lips, “Sounds like our luck as of late.” 

You see Arthur’s face pinch as Dutch takes a pull from his cigar, and it’s then that you begin to step away, knowing that this was quickly going to turn into a small argument amongst the two men. 

“Dutch, I mean it. We got lucky that we didn’t get shot or taken by those men. I mean, there was some higher up people on that train, but not enough to warrant that much of cavalry behind it. And to make matters worse, it was Cornwall‘s train,” Arthur begins, his voice growing softer with distance as you head towards your tent, “We can’t keep runnin’ into things, Dutch. Not with the Pinkertons so close on our tail.” 

“I know son, I know,” is all you hear as you manage to put more space between yourself and the debate growing like a storm between the two men. 

As you approach your tent, you see, under the oak that shades it, is John. He seems to be waiting for you, leaning off of the trunk and waving the match out that he used to light his cigarette before walking towards you. Your expression must speak quite a bit for what you expect to come from his pointed lingering, and John quickly takes a hit from his cigarette before exhaling and speaking. 

“I ain’t gonna yell your head off,” he assures you, his eyes not quite meeting yours. 

“Then what are you gonna do?” 

“Apologize.” 

Your eyes widen some, and John sighs, nodding off to the side. 

You walk with him then, going past your tent until you stand at the edge of the camp, overlooking the land as John smokes a bit more, burning through about half his cigarette in about a minute as you wait for him patiently. 

Eventually, he smokes his fill, and he tosses the butt of his cigarette to the ground, crunching it under his boot and exhaling before he speaks. 

“I went too far, earlier today,” he starts quietly, and you lift your chin, trying to ignore the way your throat flexes painfully at the mention of his previous words, “What I said... Arthur’s right. I deserved to get clocked in the face for that one...” 

“If you expect an apology for it, you’re never getting' one.” 

“I don’t want one,” he tells you, “I know that my mouth gets ahead of me sometimes. Ain’t no one who knows that better than Abigail, I assure you, but... I think I got ahead of myself when it came to you, today.” 

You glance at the scraggly outlaw from the corner of your eye as you cross your arms, “That so?” 

“You proved yourself to me tonight... You... You did well. Better than I honestly thought. Dutch ain’t got no reason to question you, though I’m sure he’ll find one way or another to twist his desire for trust into havin’ you do more dirty work,” John sighs, and he then looks ten years older at that moment, “I just thought... Well... Arthur, I thought he spoke so highly of you because he cared. It ain’t a bad thing, per se, but I thought he was just blowin’ hot air when he spoke about you... And now... I can see he was only ever speakin’ the truth.” 

Your cheeks burn as you ask, “I had no idea he held me that highly...” 

“He does. And for good reason. I can tell he cares a lot about you. Even more than with what we got. And while we may be at each other’s throat, that man’s my brother,” John pauses then, “But Arthur, he doesn’t usually hitch himself to people, let alone with his heart... Last time I saw him do somethin’ like this, he got it broken... I ain’t ever seen him get a reason to try and piece it back together for the sake of startin’ over... But now, I... I think he’s got a reason to.” 

You bite your lip, looking over to where you see the first tinges of dawn begin to tinge the sky. 

“You do a lot more for him than you realize,” John murmurs, and he sets a hand lightly on your shoulder, “Thank you for that.” 

You don’t know what to say, but John leaves you then, his footsteps slowly growing quieter and quieter as leaves. 

His words echo in your mind, their implications just as resounding as you watch the sun rise up above the trees. 

And down below, where the rockface of the ledge of Horseshoe Overlook sprouts from, emerging from the brush as you think of Arthur, is a large buck. He lifts his head, his massive antlers proudly arching forth as you inhale shallowly as it approaches the flowers that you had messed with only some hours before. He sniffs them, moving them with his nose as you watch. 

But, as quickly as he came, his appearance is brief. He lifts his head, ears flicking as he hears Pearson shouting that the stew is ready, and he bounds off, leaping across the open space below until he disappears into the thicket of trees some feet away. 

And so you are left alone with your thoughts, as blinding and as promising as the first rays of sunlight that touch and warm your skin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit here at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/promptask
> 
> If you'd like to support me or get some extra cool fic requests in, check out my ko-fi page here:  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QOncv49VsmQ


	10. Horseshoe V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You believe in God? In Heaven and in Hell?”
> 
> “I believe that, at the very least, the people we leave behind, the legacy for ourselves that we leave behind, that is what judges us. At least here on earth.”
> 
> As Arthur goes over to the canned goods, he glances to you from the corner of his eye, “You ain’t religious?”
> 
> “Nah. Not really. My dad was a little, but I never caught onto it. Don’t think it’s a bad thing, just... I just think a lot of what people do they blame it on somethin’ bigger than themselves. Micah would spend every second to his last sayin’ that he is just a mere man in the face of sin, that Temptation is meant to humble us and sully us, but I think that’s a load of la mierda from someone who knew what they were doin’ and just didn’t care until they were made to face the consequences.”
> 
> Arthur chuckles, and he grabs onto a can of beans to put into his satchel, “Suppose you’re right about that.”
> 
> “You believe in God? In Heaven and in Hell?”
> 
> “I think there comes a time that we’re all gonna be judged by somethin’ bigger than us for what we chose to do,” he explains softly, “And I know that they’re gonna have a lot on me when that time comes...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **EDIT 6/17:** So there is quite a few errors in this mofo, but that was expected! I actually wrote most of this in three days' time once I got over a few plot hurdles I was stuck over. So yeah, this chapter will need some loving TLC some time or another. Sorry about that! (Though I'm sure you all are SO used to my typos at this point.)
> 
> Otherwise, thank you all so much for your responses on here and on Tumblr! I'm about to go through and respond to whatever I can! I just wanted to add this small note of thanks as I go reply! <3
> 
> \---
> 
> So here it is! The final stretch of our time in Horsehoe/Chapter 2!
> 
> I just wanna go ahead and make a few disclaimers here before we get started:  
> \- **graphic violence, may contain triggers**  
>  \- lots of angst and arguing  
> \- plz don't kill me
> 
> I don't want to spoil everything from my author's note alone, but seriously, **reader discretion is advised**.
> 
> That being said, this is SUCH a huge read. So much happens in this chapter, and honestly, it's pretty directly paced. I'll probably spruce this chapter up whenever I revamp this story (as I mentioned I wanted to print out a copy for myself), so I'm sure this will be a god damn DOOZY come that point.
> 
> Seriously. This is our longest chapter ever at almost 40k!  
> To give you a size inference, normally, one update averages about 20k, and it has about 25-ish pages worth of writing on my Microsoft Word doc. This one is almost double that word count with a whopping 80+ pages of writing. Jfc.
> 
> Hope you all like this! I look forward to your comments, and I aim to reply to every one (I know I'm awful about it, I'm so sorry! I'm a lot better when responding to people on my tumblr, when it works, ofc). I'd love to answer any questions about this chapter and go in-depth about things with you all! There's been so much I've been sitting on with it. :')
> 
> So I just saved this draft off of my laptop and now I’m going to post it via my phone lol. 😎
> 
> Enjoy!~

****

## — A FEW DAYS LATER —

****

“Ms. Broce!”

You turn your head, finding Ms. Grimshaw’s sour face amongst the wagons, and you frown as you see her stomping forth. The light from the rising sun casts harsh shadows along her face, almost as hard of the line of her scar and her wrinkled scowl as you take stock of her. 

She’s been in a bad mood ever since Dutch announced that the camp would be moving soon. Granted, while she always seems as palatable as pure salt, but the news did nothing to make her any sweeter or tolerable. 

And, as she approaches, you find that she has pointed her grit to you. 

“Yes, Ms. Grimshaw?” 

“Strauss when into town, and turns out you got a letter,” she hisses, “Out of all the times you can receive mail, it had to be now!” 

Frowning softly as she hands you the envelope held in between your fingers, you murmur, “Thank you, Ms. Grimshaw.” 

“You better be thankful! And don’t take too long reading it! I need you to help out as much as you can, especially with gathering your things!” she looks down to your healed leg then, “And now that’s all healed up, I don’t expect you to sit out this time around!” 

“I won’t, Ms. Grimshaw.” 

Huffing, she turns, her glare set to where she spies Mary-Beth and Tilly giggling as they splash their laundry water on one another in their attempts to dump it. 

“Ms. Jackson and Gaskill! You better quit that shit before I go on and drown ya!” 

You hear the girls splutter off some feet away as Grimshaw charges in their direction, and you sigh, taking your letter and stepping back to your tent. 

You look at the envelope, eyeing the off-white color of the paper as you frown lightly. It feels a little hefty, as though there were some pages inside as you begin to step inside your tent. 

“Who’s it from?” 

You jump, eyes shifting until they land on Arthur. 

He’s smirking from where he sits on your cot, eyes crinkled like the light creases in his plaid shirt as he lights a cigarette. Rolling your own, you sit down on the cot beside him as the outlaw scratches through his thick scruff, leaning over as you study the envelope. 

“I’m not sure...” 

“Well, you will once you read it.” 

Snorting, your finger separates the seal of the paper, and you shake your head as he only leans in further, “Nosy much?” 

“A little,” he admits, not bothering to back up despite his shoulder being pressed against yours. 

You attempt to ignore him as you pull the folded sheets of paper from the envelope, your eyes narrowing as you see the delicate scrawl of ink labeling their outside. 

_Noir B._

“Noir B.?” Arthur says, once again butchering the pronunciation, “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Well, noir means black in French,” your stomach grows tight then, especially as you flip open the letter to see what else was written. 

There, at the top, is a familiar pet name greeting you. 

“Fleur...” Arthur murmurs, pausing. 

“It’s from my mother... Noir B. must be an alias.” 

Arthur seems a little off, but he looks at you, his gaze somewhat questioning, “You gonna read it?” 

“I...” you fold her letter back up, “Maybe not right now... Not until I get a good moment to.” 

Nodding once, Arthur looks back out to the camp from the inside of your tent, “Guess we’re all waitin’ for one of those...” 

You’re not sure what to say as you put the letter from your mother back up into the envelope before sliding it into one of the inner pockets of your satchel. You hadn’t expected her to write so soon. But then again, you didn’t expect her to be alive, so you suppose that you’re still going to be surprised when it came to that woman. 

“Do you plan on writin’ back?” Arthur asks then, standing as he pops his back some. 

“I’m not sure on that either... I... I’m still angry.” 

“Suppose you always will be, in some way,” Arthur murmurs, “But as I said, don’t let that be what controls you. Anger, it’s a heavy thing. Can stick with you years, like guilt... Probably one of the most stubborn things you can feel, too. But don’t let it rule that relationship with your mom, especially when you weren’t supposed to get the chance to have it.” 

Looking down towards the grass below your boots, you hang your head, “I know... the only memory I have of her is the day my father told me she wasn’t comin’ back home. And then he showed me her plot outside that he dug while I was asleep, and I just remember cryin’ for days. But as I got older, that subsided. But it never left my father... I just... I don’t understand how she could’ve left us behind like that... Knowin’ that those men could come back... That she could just come back.” 

“She stayed away because she knew those men would always be on her tail, and that if they knew about you, then you would’ve gotten hurt or worse. And as a parent, the last thing you want to be is responsible for your child gettin’ hurt...” 

Like that night when you were about to leave Bluewater Marsh, you can see something under the man’s skin as he says that. Almost like a fog it is, thick and heavy and lingering about the man like weights chained to his ankles, and as gripping as a hand wrapped around his throat in a vice. 

Narrowing, his eyes flick to where Jack plays at Abigail’s tent across from camp. You take in his bright smile, the weightlessness that he carries. Like sunshine, he is pure and bright, warm and full of life. 

It is a pale comparison to the man before you, who looks almost as though he were a ghost at that moment. Receded, drained. Holding onto something long since passed. 

“Arthur?” 

The man doesn’t react to you instantly, but his face does pinch, and you can see him bottle whatever it is that was bubbling forth even further. Tensing, his shoulders draw back, and he turns his head to you, voice somber. 

“Wolf, she loved you then, and she loves you now. She’s your mother. And unlike some, she takes pride in that fact...” you grip onto the edge of your cot as he continues, “There is not a doubt in my mind that if she did have a choice, she would’ve stayed with you and your dad until she did need a plot in the ground,” his words are as gentle as they are sincere, and you try to ignore the way your throat tightens as they are said to you, “Sometimes we don’t get a choice on whether we run or we stay, despite how we feel. And the hardest choice is whether you want to accept that reality or not.” 

The outlaw looks down to you, and you bring your eyes up slowly to his. Your irises lock onto one another, their fracturing of colors dancing amongst each other like how your heart taps against your ribs like a butterfly trapped within glass. Just as fragile and fleeting, and wanting for something it may never come to know. 

“Wolf, if there’s one thing I’ve come to know, It's that you never run. Even when things go bad. When things go entirely wrong. You never leave when you got the choice. I know that, because despite you havin’ the chance, you stuck with us... You stuck with me,” the outlaw’s drawl gets lower, growing mellow with fondness as his lips move with the subtle smile he gets, “You’re as stubborn as they come. If not more... Especially for people you care about... that you love... And I...” his face screws up some, and dare you to say if it doesn’t turn a bit red with blush, “Well I— I just wanted to tell you that I—” 

“Mr. Morgan!” 

Both of you snap your focus to the arrival of Strauss, and your stomach only roils on itself as the man approaches. 

You’ve never quite run into the man since your early days on with the gang back when they were camped near Blackwater, and you’ve been satisfied with the lack of run-ins and interaction. And it is obvious as the old man approaches, his sour expression as stark as the sharp lines of his face, that he still holds his grudge from that time as though it were fresh. 

The Austrian launderer adjusts his small glasses up the steep slope that is his nose, and he tries to only keep his attention on the outlaw at your side. 

“Mr. Morgan—” 

“The hell you want, Strauss?” Arthur snips, and you're taken aback some by how sudden his bite is. 

Apparently, Strauss is just as surprised, his eyes widening some as he produces that damn ledger to show to Arthur, “T-There’s some debtors, Mr. Morgan. Ones that need to be collected from before we leave.” 

“Of course there are,” Arthur growls, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Give me a second with Wolf here and then I’ll come over to finish your damned dirty work.” 

“Certainly,” Strauss murmurs, and his eyes shift to yours. 

What he finds is your glare, full of hellfire and its heat. 

Swallowing thickly, the man scampers off to where his wagon is being packed up by Reverend Swanson and Pearson, and you huff at the way it reminds you of a rat running once it's been spotted scrounging for scraps. 

“Swear... Man grows up poor in Vienna and thinks he can make a livin’ on makin’ people destitute,” Arthur growls. 

The outlaw runs his calloused fingers along his forehead, his eyes shut as he lets out a deep breath. His shoulders fall, and you can see as he relents, glancing back to you. 

“Looks like we’ll just have to talk later,” he mutters, but he goes to his satchel then, digging into it as you find your voice. 

“You’re goin’ to collect those debts?” 

Stalling, his hand stops just short of the opening of his satchel as he looks up to you, his words unsure, “Doesn’t seem like I got much of a choice.” 

“Oh,” you say, feeling unsure with the way you feel the beginnings of bile rise in your throat then, “Just... thought you didn’t like doin’ that.” 

“I don’t. But I don’t have a choice in the matter.” 

Frowning, you watch as the man removes his hand from his satchel, his fingers wrapped around something you can’t make out at his side, “You sure you don’t?” 

“Wolf, now ain’t the time,” he says hollowly, but he moves his hand over, holding out his palm to you, “But... If you do find some... This is a fountain pen. One that you can use to write back to your ma with.” 

You recognize the blue fountain pen, and your scowl only grows as Arthur offers it to you. 

“Ain’t that the pen that man gave you? The one that recognized us from Blackwater, and you chased down when we first got to Valentine?” 

Arthur’s lips turn downward some, and his hand lowers a little from where it was held out to you, “Yeah... Jimmy Brooks was his name.” 

“What happened with Jimmy?” you ask, eyes narrowing, “You never quite told me.” 

Arthur stands a bit straighter under your subtle scrutiny, and you feel a different tension begin to leech in the air, “I did what I had to... Told ya, he didn’t plan on talkin’ after that. That’s all that mattered.” 

Your chest constricts, “Did you beat him?” 

“Wolf—” 

“You did,” you say, standing and meeting Arthur’s gaze head-on, “I know you did. And while you ain’t gotta say it for me to know, I’d like for you to admit it.” 

The man scowls deeply, and his eyes darken as you stand at odds with one another. 

A breeze passes through, ruffling the lengths of his hair that now brush near his shoulders, and it feels just as buffering as the clash between you and Arthur. 

“Guessin’ you don’t want the pen...” he says after a moment. 

“No.” 

The outlaw puts the fountain pen back into his satchel, and you clench your hands into fists at your sides. 

“Not interruptin’ anythin’, am I?” 

You almost jump at the sound of Charles’ voice, and you pivot your head to take in the sight of the bulky man eyeing you and Arthur almost oddly. Feeling some of your tension leak out of you at his arrival, you swallow lightly, turning the rest of the way to face the other man. 

“What is it, Charles?” 

You hear Arthur mutter something under his breath as he goes to break away, the heavy footfalls of his boots almost making you flinch as he stomps away. 

Charles watches after him for a moment before he looks back to you, eyes softening on you. 

“Do you need to get out of camp for a moment?” 

Letting out a shaky breath, you nod, grabbing your satchel and hat from the post in your tent to put on. 

“Y-Yeah...” 

“Come on, then.” 

As you fix the strap of your satchel over your shoulder, you can feel the newfound fissure between you and Arthur grow with your distance. From Strauss’ end, you can hear his gruff drawl, and despite being unable to make out his words exactly, you know what he and the other man are discussing, and it only hurts you at that moment as you walk at Charles’ side. 

Coming upon the hitching posts at the front of the camp, you already see that Charles’ Appaloosa, Taima, is already at the front. D’or is a little off to the side, but you see Kieran already bringing her up to the post, and she nods her head as she sees you and Charles approach. 

“Freshly brushed for ya!” Kieran grins, and you offer a slight smile back, to which his falls at its appearance, “You... you alright, Ms. Broce?” 

“I’m fine,” you murmur, and you stop at D’or’s side then, running a hand reverently down her side, her golden coat immaculate, “She looks as great as ever. Thank you.” 

“’Course,” Kieran says softly, watching as you saddle up, “Just... let me know if you need anythin’, okay?” 

“Okay,” you tell him, nodding his way with a forced quirk to your lips. 

Charles remains quiet at your side, but you are able to follow him without a word being said. He spurs Taima, guiding the Appaloosa through the trees and where Bill is doing his rounds until you are both on the main road. He turns right, heading away from Valentine and pointing you in the direction of Twin Stack Pass. 

You ride on for some time without a word being shared between you two, even as the hearty woodlands around you begin to give way to the large formations of weathered rock jutting into the sky like pyres, and the rolling grasslands that lay beyond. 

But, as you go through Twin Rock Pass, Charles finally decides to speak up. 

“You ever hunt buffalo before?” 

Blinking, you glance over to Charles then, watching as the man works the reigns of his mare as he guides her through the curve of the road, “I hunted with my dad, but... I never personally shot one. Just skinned ‘em for him.” 

“Well, you get to do it all today.” 

As the land opens up pass the formations of stone tracing the sky, you follow as Charles diverts from the main road, having Taima work through the tall, blonde strands of grass that reach a little past the mare’s knees as she keeps up her light gallop. 

He waits until he gets to a crest of one of the hills, slowing Taima down until she stops. Then, he reaches into her saddlebag, grabbing out a pair of binoculars as you squint to look out into the sunny fields before you. 

The grass sways in the breeze, and Taima shifts with it, adjusting herself on her hooves as Charles brings the binoculars up to his eyes, looking out to try and find his intended target as you wait. 

“There, about a mile or so out,” the man points, and you follow the direction of his finger until you see the splotches of deep brown that you recognize to be a herd of buffalo. 

He hands you the binoculars then, and you take them, bringing them up to your own eyes. With their aid, you can make out the cluster of the buffalo as they graze. You hear Charles mess with his saddle, and you lower the binoculars to find him removing a Rolling Block rifle that had been strapped to it. 

“You ever fire one of these?” he asks. 

“Once or twice,” you murmur, “Figure it’s a bit closer to my carbine than anythin’ like a revolver, so I should be fine.” 

Nodding, Charles hands the rifle over to you, “Then take it. I don’t like the damn thing.” 

Your eyes widen some as you take the gun from Charles, “You sure?” 

“You’d be doin’ me a favor, takin’ it. It Isn't any hardship for me.” 

Nodding, you place the strap across your chest, letting the rifle rest along your back as Charles gets ahold of Taima’s reins once more. 

“Okay...” 

The man spurs Taima, and you both begin to approach the herd with a leisurely gallop. 

“Say, why are we huntin’ buffalo anyways?” you ask him then, glancing over to Charles, “Shouldn’t we be focusin’ on gettin' out of here?” 

“There’s only so much we can do around the camp, and we do need some food to stock up on for the trip... And buffalo, they’re a good thing— at least to my people. My mother told me about how a white buffalo signified good luck, that it was almost like seeing a god on the plains... And with how things have been, and how they’re going... I think that we need to take what blessings we can get.” 

You hum, your eyes looking to where D’or parts the tall lengths of grass as she rides forth towards the herd. 

“Slow up. We don’t want to startle them and have them run off to where you can’t get a clear shot...” 

You both ease up on the reins, slowing the mares underneath you both as you stop about fifteen yards off from the herd. They haven’t noticed you or Charles, with their hands down to the ground as they pull up the dry grass there. 

Getting the gun from off your shoulder, you check the chamber, seeing the express round inside as you ready it. At your side, Charles remains quiet, especially as you raise the gun, tilting your head and squinting one eye closed as you go to aim. 

Off to the side of the herd is a straggler. It’s an older buffalo, and it grazes peacefully as you watch it within the sights of the rifle. Moving the crosshairs to its head, you see it lift its gaze to you, almost expectant for its fate as your finger beings to press down on the trigger.

## CRACK!

The gunshot rings out, crackling through the air like thunder as the buffalo that was in your sights drops to the ground. 

Around it, the other buffalo panic, immediately going to run together and away from where the other lies motionless amongst the weeds. 

You lower the rifle, smoke coming from the end of the barrel as Charles hums approvingly beside you. 

“Arthur wasn’t kidding when he said you were a good shot.” 

Offering a small noise of acknowledgment to the comment, your eyes do not leave the mass of the buffalo and where it had fallen still in a heap upon the grasslands below. You pull the strap of the rifle across your chest as you’d done before. 

“Why did you ask me to come huntin’ with you anyways?” you ask. 

“I needed someone to come with, and well, things aren’t great. It’s much like when things were going wrong before the ferry,” Charles murmurs as he spurs Taima forth, and lightly using your heel to tap D’or’s sides with the back of your boots, the Trotter trots to keep in pace with the man, “You know, I haven’t truly had a moment alone with you since Blackwater.” 

“Feels like so long ago,” you say softly, your words like the grass crackling under D’or’s hooves. 

“It does... But it has only been some months since then,” Charles pauses then, “Truth be told, I didn’t expect you to stick around.” 

Pinching, your expression grows a little heavier, “I kinda found reasons to stay.” 

“You mean Arthur.” 

“Not just Arthur...” you grumble. 

“But he was the first,” Charles says, and you remain silent until Charles speaks up further, “You know, I’ve always been a loner. Preferred it that way. Wasn’t until I found Dutch and the others that I bothered to keep myself around people. Because distance? It helps you see things between others. All I could see with anyone I’d come across is that they didn’t care whether I lived or died. That didn’t change till I came here... Especially when I look at how everyone sees each other. Including you and Arthur.” 

“What does that have to do with Arthur and me?” 

“All I see between you two is just how close you are, even as you fight.” 

You come upon the body of the bison then, frowning lightly as you slow D’or just as Charles slows his Appaloosa, “It ain’t like what you’re thinkin’...” 

“And it isn’t what you think it is, either,” Charles argues. 

Sighing, you drop down to the ground, your boots landing onto the grass with a soft thud as your hand moves to your gun belt, going to where your hunting knife is sheathed at your hip. 

“I can’t lie and say that Arthur doesn’t mean anythin’ to me... Sure, we’ve had our problems here and there— disagreements, fights. Sometimes it’s felt like we’re polar opposites tryin’ to meet in the middle somehow. And it seems that it’s gonna be that way now,” kneeling down at the buffalo’s side, you take your knife to begin working on the carcass as Charles watches over you, “But he gave me a chance when no one else would... Strauss, he launders because he loves to take advantage. Francis loved doin’ that to me too. Dutch even looks at me like I’m nothin’ more than a card to play in his game... But Arthur, he gave me a chance to start over when everyone only wanted to finish me off...” 

“And yet, you’re angry.” 

Shaking your head, you work your knife along the buffalo’s skin, “Not angry... Just... disappointed.” 

“Why?” 

“’Cause... The last person he took debts from was me... And I still remember the fear I felt when he showed up. At thinkin’ about all he could’ve done to me without consequence... And hearin’ him talk to Strauss to go off and make good on that fear for other people like it was nothin’, it just... took me back to the day he came to me at my father’s cabin.” 

Charles tilts his head at you, and you can see his mind working away at your words, “You expect better of him because that is what he did with you.” 

“I won’t be there for when he goes to collect, and I’m glad for it... I don’t think I could stomach seein’ him—” you stop for a second, your breath hitching some, “I wouldn’t even be able to look at him afterward...” 

“Underneath the callous he’s gained or kept, he cares. He cares a lot more than any of the others. But he hides it. Because caring gets you hurt,” your knife cuts through the flesh of the buffalo, and Charles’ eyes narrow on you, “It is not wrong to care about him the same way as he does for you.” 

Pausing, you glance up to Charles then, “Why are you tellin’ me all this?” 

“Because I can see you warring with yourself. You have been since you first showed up when we were holed up outside of Blackwater. And with each passing day, I’ve only seen it grow and grow. I can tell it’s splitting you apart.” 

Breathing deeply, you shove the knife deep into the buffalo, working the sharp edge of the blade against sinew, “I’m not splittin’.” 

“Tell me, is the person you are now anythin’ like what you were when you first showed up?” 

You think. 

You think back to when it was just you and your father. You think about your hopelessness as he grew only sicker still, and how there was nothing more than the false hope of him getting better to hold onto. When you knew nothing about your mother being alive, or when you didn’t have the red and new scar on your leg from Francis. 

When all you had shot were animals, and the only person you aimed to save was your father. 

And now, here you are. 

With your father buried next to an empty grave back by the cabin that you’d left behind like everything else. With a rifle strapped to your back and the bison now totted around as the most innocent kill you’ve made in a few weeks. 

With Arthur on your mind as the man who made no efforts to save himself. 

You were nothing like the naïve woman you had been only some months ago. Helpless, hopeless. Wanting for things she could never have or dream for herself. 

And as you peel back the skin of the buffalo beneath you, you can’t help but feel a fondness for when things were so much simpler. 

“I ain’t the same... But who would be, after all of this,” you murmur, “Sometimes we surprise ourselves. Sometimes, we gotta change... I never expected to come runnin’ along with you all as I have, but I’m here. And I ain’t runnin‘... Guess I’m gonna see this out somehow... however that may be...” 

Charles nods in understanding then, and he starts talking lowly, “I’ve only been with this gang for a little over six months, Wolf. Before that, I was on my own. For years, by choice. Everyone was just a burden I didn’t want to carry. But then, I came across Dutch. He didn’t judge me for what I was— a man with a black drunkard he ran away from for a father, and a dead Indian for his mother. In all the years I’ve been on my own, it was the first time someone didn’t view _me_ as the burden, so I stayed...” his face darkens some then, “I stayed when we had to move to Blackwater. I stayed when the ferry job went wrong. And I’m staying now when we’re about to run off when things went wrong again... Sometimes, I wonder if it was the right choice.” 

Going back to cutting the bison, you ask, “Do you think it was wrong of me to?” 

“It must’ve felt right for you to... Out of all of us, you have the least tying you down here.” 

“The same could go for you,” you point out. 

Smiling lightly, Charles dips his head, a few strands of his brown hair falling into his face as he does so, “You’re right... And while I’m not one to run, I wasn’t one to stay, either... I told myself whenever I joined this gang that it would take a lot to get me to walk away.” 

As you peel back the bison’s skin, your hands tacky with crimson as you glance up to the man, you whisper, “You’re gettin' there though, aren’t you?” 

He quiets then, looking to where the last of the herd of the bison runs over the crest of the sweeping hills in the distance, his eyes wistful, “When I was a boy, my father and I lived with my mother and her people. Her tribe, they worshiped the bison. They were food, shelter— they were life as they knew it. And so, they moved wherever the bison went, because it was how they survived... It used to feel like we followed nothin’ more than the desire for a free life... But now? . . . It just feels like we try to follow the money.” 

Your knife cuts into the internal flesh of the bison, and you hum as the vultures fly eagerly overhead, “I know what you mean... With Dutch tellin’ us that we can only leave when we have enough despite the Pinkertons knockin’ on our door, it just makes me feel like countin’ bill stacks are more his priority than the lives around him...” 

“Since the ferry, I can tell that doubt has begun to sprout in some of us... Maybe those of us who are willing to feel it... I wanted to talk to you because I know you are, but Arthur—” 

“He feels it. He just doesn’t want to believe it,” your words are almost as harsh as the cuts of your hunting knife then as you work over to the backside of the bison, “It seems like sometimes he gets it, and then at others, he doesn’t because he doesn’t _want_ to. I get that he’s spent twenty years runnin’ with Dutch, but shouldn’t that just concern him more? That all that time seems to only matter to him?” 

Grabbing some cloth from your satchel, you set the cuts from the bison on it a little harsher than necessary. Charles watches you until you lean back, your bloodied hands resting by the wrists on your legs awkwardly to avoid getting any on your pants as you sigh. 

“Dutch is like a father to him. And his actual father? Well, he was nothin’ more than a drunkard who loved to test his swing on Arthur whenever he could... He was a broken boy who grew into a broken man under Dutch’s guidance. I get that,” you say, and your eyes meet Charles’ then, “But at the same time... It just hurts to see him be so willing to believe that there’s been a bigger purpose in all this. This gang? It’s really just full of thieves. Murderers... And I’m one of ‘em now...” 

“But you’re not.” 

Huffing, you wrap the first bits of meat that you cut, “I can guarantee that the truth says otherwise.” 

“A murderer only kills when there is no need. Just as a poacher kills an animal when there is no purpose behind it other than to end a life. My tribe made sure that every buffalo had a greater purpose once it was gone. With the skin making clothes or our teepees, its meat feeding us for days,” Charles explains, “In life, there are times that blood must be spilled. But it is whether or not that it is justified that makes it count.” 

Wrapping the meat up in the fabric, you lift it, putting it into your satchel as your gut sinks some. 

“I’ve shed a lot of blood already, and I think it counts to somethin’. Just not anythin’ good,” you murmur, standing then as you wrap up the buffalo’s pelt. 

Charles says nothing as you go to D’or, setting the wrapped pelt on her back before you go to get saddled back up. 

Sighing, you lightly spur D’or forward, guiding the mare back to the main road, you leave behind the carcass of the buffalo, the vultures swooping in with your departure. 

You ride forth, the sun now higher in the sky and the day not as infantile. A bit of heat picks up in the air, and you take a deep breath as D’or works underneath you. 

You think about how yet again, it seems like the gang’s immediate future is up in the air. With the Pinkertons too close and knowing for comfort, and with the gang having drawn too much focus on themselves for the month or so you’ve stayed here, it almost feels as daunting as when you were waiting for the ferry to arrive in Blackwater. 

Charles seems to notice your nerves, and he glances to you, asking, “You okay?” 

“Just... a bit worried is all...” 

“I’ll admit, this is the tightest pinch we’ve been in for a while... Thought it would be over after we got out of Colter, but it just seems like we romanticized our time her than seeing it for what it truly was.” 

Those words have you tightening your grip on the reins, “I suppose we all got caught up, thinkin’ things were over... We shoulda known better. Those Pinkertons don’t seem to be lettin’ up anytime soon.” 

“When we robbed the ferry and things went south, they were there on the ferry. I saw them before we even tried to make a move... I remember how odd it all was, and I told Dutch there was a bad feeling about it all... But he insisted.” 

“’Course he did,” you shake your head, “And does he have any idea where we’re gonna go once he thinks we have enough money to run again? Or is he gonna insist we stay until he figures that out?” 

The man’s face pinches, “Not sure. With the Pinkertons havin’ found us as we are, and knowing as much as they do, I gather that it would be foolish to head westward as we initially intended. Here, they have us cornered in the east. It would just be easier to keep pushing us that way till we’re by Annesburg with nowhere to left to go.” 

“That sounds mighty pleasant.” 

“Smart is what it is. Those men aren’t as dumb as the regular law. Don’t think they’ll stop till they get what they want, and until then, I’m sure we won’t stop runnin’ either.” 

Huffing, you jest, “Well, guess this buffalo’ll be a fine last meal here in Horseshoe if Pearson doesn’t ruin it.” 

Chuckling, Charles admits, “You should cook it. We haven’t had anything decent since that stew you made.” 

As you come up on Twin Rock Pass once more, you whistle lowly. 

“Me? Cookin’ again? Haven’t you heard I’m past kitchen duties now?” 

That gets a good laugh out of the man beside you, and he shakes his head. 

“Well, don’t go complaining to me if it’s a bit on the charred and flavorless side.” 

After that, you two ride on in respective silence, heading back to camp the way you came. The land quickly grows familiar, with the lush green grass and the lumbering oaks making their appearance. Soon, you are back at camp. 

You pass John as he rides out, and he offers a slight tip of his hat to you both in greeting as you begin to slow D’or as Charles does with Taima. Charles nods to the man just as you do, and John gets past the thicket of woods and to the main road as your two mares to come to a stop in front of the hitching post. 

“If I ever get the opportunity, I would ask you to hunt with me again, Ms. Broce.” 

Chuckling a little, you shake your head, “I’ll be lookin’ forward to it.” 

After hitching Taima, Charles offers you a small smile, and much to his habit, the man goes to disappear into the internal workings of the camp. You let him, your smile fading ass you fix D’or's hitch, your Trotter shuffling a little on her feet. You offer her a small pat on her side, thanking her softly as you go to head back to Pearson’s wagon with your cuts of bison. 

However, in the process, you need to pass Dutch’s, and you take note of a face you had hoped not to see for a while longer. 

It’s Micah, and he’s leering from the mouth of the tent as you slow your gait. He licks his lips, brown eyes reminding you nothing more of horseshit as they darken a bit as they take you in. 

“Ms. Broce,” he purrs, “It’s been a minute since I’ve gotten to see you.” 

Your skin wants to crawl, and if you could, you would let it. 

“Wish it could’ve been longer.” 

Micah sneers, his laugh almost condescending as it seems entertained by your bite. 

But before he can comment further, Dutch comes up from behind him then, glancing between the two of you with squinted eyes and slight confusion in his air. 

“Mr. Bell, surely you’re behavin’ yourself with you just havin’ gotten back?” 

“Oh, I am behaved, Dutch! Nothin’ but a pure gentleman,” he snickers, his laugh reminding you of a cougar’s growl, gritty and low and ominous, “Especially towards our beloved Ms. Broce.” 

Dutch hums, then looking to you, “Ms. Broce... I see you didn’t ride out with Arthur for once.” 

You refrain from truly rising to Dutch’s comment, and you straighten your back some, “I can do stuff on my own without him. ‘Sides, debt collectin’ didn’t seem like somethin’ I wanted to partake in.” 

“While that’s understandable, I have no doubts you can do well without Arthur,” Dutch grins, and then he looks over to Micah, knocking on his shoulder, “Come on, Mr. Bell. Let’s leave the pretty lady alone. You need to tell me more about that stagecoach you tried to rob those O’Driscolls of!” 

The two laugh, like friends as thick as they come. But it makes your stomach roll, and you quickly walk away, trying to ignore the way Micah’s eyes linger on you until Dutch pulls him further into his tent. 

You head towards Pearson’s wagon then, your mind occupied by the look in Micah’s eyes as you see the former navy-man chopping vegetables away on the table. Karen is off to his side, placing his bags of flour and other perishables into the back of his wagon as you approach. 

“Wolf!” Karen grins like a fox when she sees you, mischief glinting in her eyes as she throws the sack of apples into the back of Pearson’s wagon in a way that has the man scowl slightly as she dances up to you, “Long time no see!” 

“Hey, Karen.” 

She looks to your hands, taking note of the blood there and her eyes widening some as she whispers, “That ain’t from a person, is it?” 

Part of you feels off at that, at how there seems to be that edge of curiosity to her. You think then, wondering what her expecting the blood on your hands to be from someone you killed means about what you’ve become. 

Like when Francis stabbed you, and you shot him back. When all of those men outside of your mother’s hideout in Bluewater Marsh fired your way, but you were the one whose aim was on the mark. 

You’re not sure what it means, but you sure as hell don’t like what it implies. 

“It’s from a buffalo,” you mutter, reaching into your satchel and placing the stained bits of fabric onto Pearson’s table, “Not from anyone you know...” 

Karen’s eyes squint then, but Pearson gets ahold of the conversation before she can say anything. 

The portly man beams at what you have produced, and he unwraps the cuts, looking giddy as he throws his bits of carrot into his large, cast iron pot. 

“Thanks for the meat, Ms. Broce. This’ll do us great for the stew I’m makin’!” 

“’Course.” 

Nodding, you watch as Karen comes closer to you. 

“You need to talk?” 

“Maybe,” you breathe. 

Glancing to Pearson, she tells him, “I’ll be back in a minute.” 

Waiving one hand a bringing his cleaver to cut a potato in half with the other, Pearson grunts, “No rush.” 

Karen puts a hand on your arm, guiding you then in the direction of Strauss’ wagon. You make eye contact once more with the man, and now that Arthur isn’t in your presence, you can see that man still resents you as though Arthur had pushed him into the dirt over you yesterday. But you glare back with just as much venom, almost like D’or whenever a snake slithered too close— you wanted to do nothing more but to stomp him to smithereens. 

Karen glances back at you, brows furrowing until she guides you to the fallen log. It’s the same one Sadie had been on when you found her in mourning, crying as she started out into the expanse of trees and the winding length of the Dakota River. Even now that feels so long ago... 

“What on with ya?” Karen asks, you both sitting down onto the log to look out at the world before you, “I can tell somethin’ is eatin’ ya up.” 

“It’s a few things... or maybe it’s a lot," you admit, “There has been nothin' but things that have got me thinkin’ right now.” 

“Then start from the beginnin’,” Karen suggests, “Or wherever you feel is best.” 

You pause, looking down at the river, at the swaths of overgrown grass and wildflowers. At how the trees dance and shift in the breeze, and the birds fly along with it like the clouds that shift in the sky. 

You remember staring at this view whenever you first arrived. Back on one of the wagons, your leg wrapped in reddened bandages and the chill of Colter still in your bones — the taste of beer on your tongue and a hitch in your breath, all for a hope in your heart that the days to come would be better than those before them. 

And now, here you are, wondering if they truly were better. If _you_ were better. 

To where the wound on your leg was healed, but the blood on your skin was assumed to be someone else’s. Dresses left to collect dust inside of your trunk, while your carbine remains freshly oiled and used. 

Burying your father was truly the death of who you had been before, and the start of a metamorphosis. Cocooned since you arrived at camp for the first time outside of Blackwater, and ripping through your carapace of change just as your bullet had done into Francis’s chest. 

Ever since then, you were unsure of what you had become. Of what you were capable of. 

But now, the picture is beginning to clear, and reality is dawning upon you. 

It was as though you emerged from your chrysalis, not as a butterfly, but as a hornet. 

“I’ve just been thinkin’... ‘bout how things have come and gone so far,” you murmur, “’Bout how things have changed since I got here... how _I’ve_ changed.” 

“How do you think you have?” 

Swallowing, you lace your fingers together, your eyes lingering on the crimson that stains the line of your skin and tinges the rest of your hands damningly, “I killed a man, back in Blackwater... Killed him in cold blood... He was the doctor that I thought was helpin’ my father, but turns out the medicine he gave me it was just bottled poison,” using your boot, you kick a rock beside you, and you watch as the jagged stone skips over the dirt and grass until it halts among the weeds, “I got so mad... Not only ‘cause he killed my father, but because I should’ve known better. Should’ve known better than to trust him as much of a crook as he was, or to take the money for Strauss to only encourage him further... I was so mad, I ran into town as they tried to rob the ferry, and I killed him.” 

Karen remains silent, and you square your shoulders, glaring at the view before you. 

“I’ve done nothin’ more than just kill other people since... Granted, they were tryin’ to kill me, and I ain’t killed anyone who hadn’t shot at me first, but... It’s just stuck with me. And I kinda just brushed it off, buryin’ it deep until Arthur told me he was goin’ to collect debts for Strauss this mornin’. It’s just made me think about everythin’ I’ve done, and I guess I ain’t really settlin’ with that reality as well as I thought I would...” 

Breathing slowly, you look from the corner of your eye at Karen. She sets her hands onto her knees, her hands working the fabric of her purple skirt between her fingers as she takes in your words. As she looks to you, her blonde ringlets falling across her face, you see something akin to pity flash across her features before she presses her lips together. 

“I know I’ve made it seem like I’m eager to kill a man just for the hell of it, and I’m sorry if it’s ever bothered you... Sure it has,” she looks away then, her shoulders lowering like her voice, “But I always thought that, if I had to defend myself, it wouldn’t feel bad. That it wouldn’t feel like I was killin’ someone even though I was at the end of things... I can see it ain’t really that way. Least, for you. And that ain’t a bad thing, Wolf. Death is death, and I would be more concerned if you were impassive to it. Even for someone you hated... It just means that you care a hell of a lot more than a lot of us. Includin’ me.” 

Doubtful, you shake your head, “I wouldn’t say that...” 

“No, it's true,” Karen turns to you then, “I feel like we’ve all either lost our sense of conscience, or we ain’t ever really had one. I sure as fuck know Micah doesn’t even know what one is,” you chuckle lightly at that, and Karen continues, “We’ve all become blind or numb to morals, and I know we all wanna feel justified in what we do... Dutch says we’re tryin’ to live our lives freely n’ all, but I don’t know at times if it means free from society, or from bein’ aware of what we’re doin’...” 

Huffing, you mutter, “I don’t think I know the difference either...” 

“I’d say the only person apart from you that really thinks is Arthur. He’s ‘bout the only one who’s honest to himself about the things he does...” 

“And yet he still does them.” 

Your voice is admittedly bitter, and your fingers drag against themselves a bit harshly as a wave of upset washes over you at that moment. 

Those words surprise Karen, and her face scrunches, and she asks, “You’re angry with him?” 

“I ain’t pleased, no...” 

Tilting her head, you can see that Karen is struggling to see why that is, “Why? I thought you two were thicker than bedrock with one another...” 

“We are, but... those debts, I don’t understand why he does it. He told me he hates doin’ that work for Strauss. And yet, he goes out and does it anyway... And I know... I know he’s goin’ to go do what I feared to those folk when he came to collect for me...” 

“Did he do anythin’ then? . . .” 

“No. He spared me from that... I used to think it was outta kindness, or somethin’ in him wakin’ up... But with him runnin’ off to do it to others like it isn’t a problem... it’s like I don’t know if he offered me pity because he came up on me right after I had buried my father that mornin’, or if it’s ‘cause I had nothin’ to take,” you grit out. 

Frowning, Karen murmurs, “I’m sure he does care, Wolf.” 

“He gotta funny way of showin’ it,” you hiss, “He tells me he knows this is all wrong, but he just does it anyway and guilts himself.” 

“Yeah, but he’s Strauss’ favorite for that kinda thing—” 

Interrupting, you huff, “I ain’t just with Strauss.” 

“Then what’s it all with?” 

“He tells me that he wants one thing, and does another. He told me he knows this life, that this gang, ain’t makin’ it, and yet he still holds on when I tell him to start plannin’ to let go. He told me that he doubts Dutch and his choices, and yet he still follows the man with a purposefully blind sense of loyalty that makes me wanna scream...” 

With a hum, Karen regards you with a spark in her eye, “You want him to get out of this, don’t you?” 

“I want him to see that it ain’t gonna work out, if not with the Pinkertons, but with himself... Ain’t no one can be torn in two like that and still go on like they’ve got themselves together.” 

“And do you want him to get out with you?” 

“I—” stalling, your words die on your tongue, and you place your face in your hands, weakly muttering, “I don’t know what I want...” 

“’Course you want him to, with the way you’ve two have stuck together. You care about him.” 

“Begrudgingly,” you say under your breath, “But... he ain’t gotta leave with me.” 

“But you want him to.” 

You sigh deeply, shaking your head as you run your hands down your face, “Told you, I don’t know what I want.” 

“I think you do, just like Arthur. But you’re holdin’ back just as he is.” 

“I think you ain’t got any idea what you’re talkin’ about,” you huff. 

Laughing, Karen grins at you, “Sure I don’t, Wolf. It’s not like you’re as easy to read as one of Mary-Beth's novels!” 

Flushing some, you go to stand, “I ain’t in the mood for teasin’, Karen—” 

“I’m not tryin’ to embarrass you,” she says sincerely, and it’s enough to get you to sit back down, “You and Arthur, I can tell you two care ‘bout one another. Arthur sucks at showin’ it, and he’s a man at heart— meanin’ he’s about as emotional as a rock sometimes, and as stubborn as a mountain. But that doesn’t mean he ain’t got a heart that doesn’t know how to feel...” 

“Weren’t you the one who warned me when I came here that I shouldn’t expect him to care about me?” 

“I warned you about gettin' sweet about him, not the other way around,” she corrects lightly, “You’ve been a surprise to all of us ever since the day Arthur grumbled about headin’ your way on Strauss’ errand. Don’t think any of us expected things to turn out like this...” 

“You can say that again...” 

Sighing, Karen sends you a hopeful look, offering you a small smile, “Wolf, he cares. About what he wants, about you. He just needs time to come around, is all.” 

Frowning lightly, you stare out ahead of you, “Well, with us about to be on the run, suppose time is all we’re gonna have... Just depends on when Dutch deems we have enough money.” 

Humming, Karen nods, and she perks a little before she speaks, “I know that John went into town. He’s workin’ a lead on some sheep that are comin’ up from Emerald Ranch in the next few days... There’s supposed to be an auction in two weeks, one on livestock... If we can hold out until then, Sean and I talked about hittin’ the bank in town right after it. Should be a lotta money in there, then.” 

“Sure that’s the right thing to do when Pinkertons are this close?” 

Snickering, she shakes her head at you, “You’re somethin’, Wolf. But to answer your question, we plan on gettin' everyone movin’ right _before_ we try and do this job this time. That way we aren’t scramblin’ to run, after.” 

Your finger rubs at your chin as you consider this, “Hm. Maybe.” 

“Well, take Arthur into town with you, see if that helps with your tensions. Sean and I were meanin’ to scope it out, but I think we’d be too distracted...” 

“That’s what they call sleepin’ ‘round nowadays?” 

Karen blusters, unusually caught off guard by your blatant remark. Her face flushes red as you chuckle, shaking your head lightly while your lips spread like the shadows as the sun rises higher. 

“You— god, when you think you know a person,” Karen clicks her tongue, putting her hands on her hips, “You know, as much as you fuss right now, Arthur’s worn on you.” 

“Long as I’ve worn on him just as much.” 

Giggling, the other woman snips back, “Oh, honey, with him, you’d be the one gettin' worn.” 

“Karen!” 

“Ha!” she claps a hand against her thigh, face and eyes bright with amusement as she twirls to where her back faces you, “And so the pot out-boils the kettle!” 

Karen goes to leave, and she takes a few steps away before you find your voice again. 

“Karen?” 

She stops, and you can hear her boots crunch a few leaves as turns to face you. You can’t look at her, your throat tight as you move your eyes to the ground below. 

“Thank you,” you say quietly, “For talkin’ to me.” 

“’Course,” she whispers, “I care about ya too, ya know.” 

You chuckle, a smile tinging your lips as Karen walks away. 

You sit there for a moment, thinking about everything and wondering what it all means. Your feelings and thoughts, all the words shared with you today alone. 

It’s a lot to take in, to think about. But you figure that now is a good as time as any for reflection when you’re practically staring in a mirror. 

Off in the distance, there is a rumble of thunder, and you take stock of the dark, gray storm clouds that roll in from over Flat Iron Lake some miles out. It’s been a little while since it rained, and it feels just as befitting. 

You remember watching the storm roll in that morning, the last morning you spent at your cabin. Thunderous and rolling overhead, colorless and encompassing. Now, in lieu of dirt cloying to your skin, you have traded it for the blood of a bison, and you let out a breath as you reach into your satchel to clean the tacky swatches of crimson staining your flesh. 

As you go to grab your small canteen of water that is held inside, you see the envelope of your mother’s letter peeking out from its pocket. You stall some, your fingers wrapping absently around your canteen before you force yourself back into your task. 

The water is cold against your skin, feeling as unforgiving as the reality of it dripping off and turning pink as you work the dried blood off of your skin. 

How many times have you had to wash it off your skin? How many times did you have to clean it off of yourself to the point where even the blood of a bison feels just as damning as a man’s? 

You’re not sure. But as you look back to your hands after some moments, the skin pink but only visually free of what it has shed. 

Going back to your satchel to put your canteen back inside, you see your mother’s letter once more. Shifting like the waters of the Dakota River in the distance, you find your mind lingering on the mess that was that situation within itself, and you take a deep breath as you only fall further into your own rabbit hole. 

The sun is now reaching towards the middle of the sky, its light bright and encompassing as you reach towards your satchel, your hands finding your mother’s letter hidden within one of its pockets. You flip the paper over a few times, wondering if you should go ahead and read it. 

You’re still contemplating reading it when you hear a throat clear behind you. Raising, your head swivels, and your breath catches in your throat. 

You see Arthur, looking a bit rugged. His hair is disheveled, and his shirt now dirty. There’s a bruise forming along his cheekbone, and you feel your stomach twist as you take in the ones you see blossoming along his knuckles. 

He looks at you, eyes tired and sad, and his shoulders low. He looks as though life’s been drained out of him, but you can do nothing more but stare when you realize why. 

“I—” the outlaw opens his mouth, wincing a little as he flexes the bit where it is tender, his lips press together. 

“You beat them.” 

Arthur swallows, and his face disappears under the brim of his hat as he looks down to his boots, “I did what I had to do...” 

You have to look away, and your bottom lip trembles as you are taken back to that day to your cabin back near Tall Trees. Your tears as fresh as the dirt on your skin from your father’s grave as you looked at Arthur not even as a stranger, but as the man who was going to ruin what little was left of your life. 

But he didn’t. 

And maybe you were naive. Naïve in believing that the same compassion he shared with you extended to others. Because you expected him to spare those debtors as he did with you. 

But, as you take in his state, at the signs of the man having fought written all over his body in small cuts and darkening bruises, you know that he didn’t. 

It eats at you in a way you can’t describe. 

Was it disappointment in him, or in yourself? Disgust? Betrayal? 

It’s too hard to pin correctly, but it locks on you like shackles as you stand from the log, forcing yourself to look at him despite knowing what you are to see. 

“I didn’t come to argue,” he says, looking back up to you then, “I just... wanted to talk.” 

“About?” 

The coldness in your voice doesn’t escape Arthur, and you see his shoulders fall lightly, and he sucks in a small breath as he gestures back to the log. 

Sitting, you watch him carefully as he approaches, sitting in the spot that once belonged to Karen. Your hairs stand against your skin, and you’re on edge as Arthur folds his bruised hands against one another in front of himself, his elbows resting on his knees. 

“I can tell you’re upset, with the debt thing...” 

“It is a bit personal,” you murmur. 

He nods once, lips pressing together thinly before he talks, “If it’s any consolation, I don’t like doin’ it. I never have.” 

“And yet you still do.” 

Arthur’s eyes shift to yours, darkened from the shadow cast and offered by the brim of his hat. But even in its shade, there’s a glint to his stare. 

“Wolf, I ain’t gotta choice... They send me because I’m the kindest one about it, believe it or not... Strauss learned the hard way when Bill ‘bout killed a man when we was over in New Austin. So he sends me instead.” 

“Must be nice. Bein’ the best piece of shit outta all of ‘em.” 

The face the outlaw makes at that comment has you looking away, but not out of regret, but frustration. 

“I’m not tryin’ to boast or offer an inch in my argument. I’m just sayin’ that I do it because I know there’s a lot worse out there for those people if I don’t, otherwise...” 

“Don’t think it really makes me feel any better,” you mutter, “Rain, snow... It’s all water in the end, no matter what form it comes in.” 

“There ain’t no explainin’ it to ya, is there?” 

Quietly, you admit, “No...” 

Arthur runs a hand over his face, his shoulders tensing a bit as his hand lingers over his mouth, his palm covering his chapped lips. The tips of his fingers disappear into the decent start of his beard, and you watch as the cogs in his head turn like the breeze shifts the lengths of his hair. 

Shifting uneasily with your perch upon the log, you look to where the storm steadily approaches from across Flat Iron Lake. The turmoil of it matches your mood, and roll your bottom lip between your teeth as Arthur sighs. 

“You wanna go into town wit’ me?” 

The question takes you a little by surprise, and you look at the outlaw then. 

“W-Why?” 

“Well, there are a few errands I gotta run, and... well... I feel like gettin' away from all this would be good for us.” 

Frowning, you gape slightly, “I— well...” 

He notices your hesitancy, and the way his face shifts minutely, with just the tiniest fraction of hurt, feels as though Francis had gotten your chest. 

“I don’t like it when we fight,” he admits to you, “I... I hate lookin’ at you and feelin’ the way I do ‘bout it... Like... Like underneath it all, you’ve always hated me...” 

His words are held precariously at that moment, as though they were made of glass, cracking and falling apart. And the way he looks at you is also just as fragile, and you have never seen the man so laid bare to you in all the days you have known him. 

“I don’t hate you...” you breathe. 

Arthur looks away, his face scrunching up on itself, and you see his vulnerability fall away to self-directed anger. 

“But you hate what I am...” 

“Arthur, I—” 

“You ain’t gotta tell me, Wolf... I already know you do,” he can’t look at you, not as his purple knuckles whiten as he flexes them roughly, his hands balling into tight fists, “You’ve always been conflicted about all this... About the things I do without even thinkin’ ‘bout it.” 

You aren’t sure what to say, and Arthur looks defeated at that moment. 

“And when we fight, it’s always what it’s about...” he says. 

“Arthur, I—” your words die out on your lips, and Arthur closes his eyes at their loss. 

“You deserve better than me...” 

Shaking his head and standing, the outlaw moves gruffly, his anger getting the best of him at that moment. You see him darken considerably, and your chest constricts as he begins to stomp away from you and into camp. 

“Arthur!” 

He stops, back facing to you. You watch as his shoulders draw up, his shirt flexing with the motion as he lingers. 

“I’ll go into town with you.” 

The way Arthur turns is slow, and the look on his face is muddled. Like river water where its bed has been stirred up too much, as murky as it is clouded, his anger falls away into a swath of emotions as he pivots his torso, glancing over his shoulder back at you. 

“You...” 

“I’ll come,” you say, standing as your eyes lock with his, “We... we can get away from all this.” 

Arthur’s brows draw in, and he looks away again, his voice still as tense as his stance, “Please don’t let it be outta pity for me...” 

“Arthur, I don’t pity you,” you say, and you come forward, looking at him then, and he refuses to look back at you. 

“Just... come on...” 

Arthur looks rather torn up, and you hate how he’s feeling as he walks with you in tow. 

You pass by Karen, who gives you a hopeful look and a thumbs up as she grins at you, but Ms. Grimshaw is quick to end it. After thwacking Karen on the arm to recalibrate her back to her task, her attention quickly moves to you, as sour as ever. 

“You best make time for your things, Ms. Broce!” 

“I will, Ms. Grimshaw!” 

She huffs, stomping away as Arthur glowers at the ground in his own march of upset. 

You both go to the hitching post, and there is Arthur’s Walker, waiting beside D’or. 

Kieran is also there, tending to Taima and undoing her hitch as you both approach. 

At the realization of how Arthur is brooding, Kieran all but flees, sending you a small glance as he scurries away with Taima following behind him. It makes Arthur sigh, but he still goes over to his Walker, undoing his tether and looking mighty displeased with things. 

As you free D’or from her post, your brows furrow as you glance across the saddles of your horses to look at the outlaw, “What are we goin’ into town for?” 

“Few things... I need to stock up on some supplies.” 

Humming, you go to lift yourself up onto D’or’s saddle, “Would you like to check out the bank?” 

Arthur pauses, and a bit of confusion manages to push through his anger. The look he gives you is bewildered, and his head tilts lightly as he regards you. 

“Why on earth would we check out the bank?” 

“Karen mentioned that her and Sean we wantin’ to rob it. After the auction on livestock in two weeks, she said. She asked if we could check it out for her earlier.” 

Sighing, Arthur grips onto the horn of his saddle to heave himself upward, and as he settles himself onto his Walker, he says, “She mentioned somethin’ like that to me... Not exactly sure how I feel ‘bout it yet.” 

“Well, we ain’t robbin’ it today if we go,” you point out, and you turn D’or to face the paths leading out of camp, “We’d just pop in and take a look, is all.” 

Some of Arthur’s anger relents at that moment, and his eyes shift to you, unsure, “You’re okay with that?” 

“Ain’t nothin’ wrong in visitin’ a bank.” 

Arthur’s brow pinches as he shifts his Walker, and the two of you gently spur your horses into a canter to lead them outside of camp, “There ain’t, at least when it ain’t for the later intent of robbin’ it.” 

Your stomach falls a little, and you grip onto D’or’s reins tighter, “I ain’t a saint myself, Arthur. I promise I ain’t. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve been selfish. I’m not above everythin’ here.” 

“But you’re too good for most of it,” he mutters. 

You’re unable to look at him, but you can tell from the corner of his eye that he is looking at you. You don’t know what to say as you both pass Javier, the man stopping on his patrol, lowing his repeater to wave at you both. 

“Lobo! Oso! Headin’ out yet again?” 

“Just goin’ into town,” Arthur says bluntly. 

“More excitin’ than this, I’m sure,” he grins, and he looks to you, “Maybe one day you can do a patrol!” 

“Probably don’t want me to. I’d shoot Micah just for tryin’ to come back in.” 

Javier laughs at that, melodic and chipper, and you can even see a little smile crack through onto Arthur’s lips. 

“Oh, then I’d definitely want you on patrol!” Javier chuckles, and he steps away as you and Arthur have your horses canter out onto the main road. 

The space between you and Arthur is tense as you set your horses into a light gallop, and you find yourself trying to make conversation with the man to attempt to bear it. 

“So... What does Oso mean?” 

Arthur’s deep scowl is back, and he sounds a little detached as he answers you, “He told me once that Oso means bear. And while I ain’t got enough wits about me with Spanish to know if that’s true, I ain’t got any reason to have any distrust in him.” 

“And Lobo?” 

“Couldn’t tell ya.” 

“Oh...” 

“It means he likes you,” Arthur says quietly, “Javier only nicknames the people he likes.” 

“But he calls Micah somethin’... la somethin’ or another?” 

Shaking his head, Arthur smirks lightly, “La mierda? Yeah. That just means shit.” 

“Oh...” 

Some of Arthur’s humor falls away then, and he speaks with some reservation, “A lot of the gang likes you. You can tell me that you ain’t a saint, but you’s a good person, Wolf. Better than a lot of us. A lot of this.” 

You frown lightly, your cheeks burning some as you pass Citadel Rock, “I don’t really think there’s such a thing as good or bad people...” 

“I can assure you, there are definitely bad people,” the outlaw hedges darkly. 

“I think the world is just full of people who make good or bad choices. None of us are perfect. None of us are inherently one thing. It’s all about our choices. A good person can do bad things, and a bad person can do somethin’ good all the same. Just depends on what we chose to do more that really defines us.” 

Shaking his head, Arthur mutters, “Guess I ain’t definin’ myself well, then...” 

“Arthur, I don’t think you’re really one or the other right now.” 

That catches the man by surprise, and he looks to you as you ride up into Valentine. 

“What do you mean?” 

As you ride past the train station, you elaborate, “I think you do too much of either to truly be good or bad... And some of it, it ain’t by choice...” 

“Then what does that make me?” 

“As conflicted as you are,” you say as you slow your horses some as you reach the curve in the road by the sheriff’s station, “You just gotta choose one direction and keep walkin’ in it, Arthur. You can’t just be walkin’ in circles your whole life about the person you’re gonna be for it.” 

The outlaw sighs as you stop outside of the general store, and he gets down onto the muddy road below, boots squelching as he lands and goes to hitch his Walker to the post, “You make it sound like it’s easy...” 

Going to hitch D’or yourself, you drop to the ground, sighing, “I ain’t sayin’ that it is. It’s hard to make the call, but more than anythin’, it’s hard to be makin’ good choices. It’s a lot easier to say to hell with it all and be the devil incarnate, to excuse yourself and give in to greed and anger and all the sins that were listed out to us. Just look at Micah— he’s done nothin’ but do a good job at makin’ himself a monster.” 

“I ain’t nothin’ like Micah,” Arthur growls under his breath. 

You can tell the anger isn’t directed to you as you both step up onto the wooden porch of the general store, “No. You ain’t like Micah. But anyone could be if they made the same choices, and we all get judged for ‘em in the end.” 

As you go into the general store, Arthur’s voice lowers some as you walk past a few townsfolk shopping, and you come closer to his side to hear his whispers, “You believe in God? In Heaven and in Hell?” 

“I believe that, at the very least, the people we leave behind, the legacy for ourselves that we leave behind, that is what judges us. At least here on earth.” 

As Arthur goes over to the canned goods, he glances to you from the corner of his eye, “You ain’t religious?” 

“Nah. Not really. My dad was a little, but I never caught onto it. Don’t think it’s a bad thing, just... I just think a lot of what people do they blame it on somethin’ bigger than themselves. Micah would spend every second to his last sayin’ that he is just a mere man in the face of sin, that Temptation is meant to humble us and sully us, but I think that’s a load of la mierda from someone who knew what they were doin’ and just didn’t care until they were made to face the consequences.” 

Arthur chuckles, and he grabs onto a can of beans to put into his satchel, “Suppose you’re right about that.” 

Pausing, you watch as Arthur grabs a few cans of various fruits before you ask, “You believe in God? In Heaven and in Hell?” 

“I think there comes a time that we’re all gonna be judged by somethin’ bigger than us for what we chose to do,” he explains softly, “And I know that they’re gonna have a lot on me when that time comes...” 

You’re not sure what to say to that, but you follow Arthur as you move past a woman shopping with her son, and as he grabs a few more things, you think about what he has said as he approaches the shopkeeper. 

“Found everythin’ you needed today?” the man asks. 

“Yessir.” 

Arthur begins to put all of the items he had grabbed onto the counter, and you notice how the shopkeeper’s eyes narrow on him then. 

“Wait... I’ve seen you before.” 

You and Arthur both freeze, but instead of anything damning, the shopkeeper lights up, laughing. 

“You’re the man who fought Tommy, outside the saloon a few weeks ago!” 

Arthur relaxes only a fraction, and he is a little short as he grabs his money clip to pay, “Yes... That was me.” 

“I thought I knew when you came in here to buy all those things earlier, but lookin’ as you do now just confirms it!” the man gestures to Arthur’s hands then and the bruises lining them, “You know, Tommy ain’t ever been right since then. Like the light’s on but no one’s home. Ain’t no one ever seen Tommy get bested like that.” 

Arthur is quiet, and it takes him a moment to grab his money to pay the man. 

“Glad I could offer some entertainment,” he grits out as he tosses the cash onto the counter. 

Oblivious, the shopkeeper takes Arthur’s money, grinning still as he looks to you as well, “That he was, wasn’t he? You got yourself quite a fighter, miss!” 

You say nothing as Arthur gathers his things, refusing to look at the man as he shoves it all gruffly into his satchel. 

“Y’all come back soon, now!” the shopkeeper calls after you both as you rush to exit the general store. 

Your heart beats heavily, and you glance over to Arthur, now looking just as frustrated as he was before. 

“Arthur—” 

“Let’s check out this damn bank and get outta here,” he grumbles. 

You press your lips together as you both cross the street, hurrying to get past a few men on horses and a wagon that rolls in the opposite direction down the road. You reach it then, standing out by its doors as a few men stand on the adjacent corner, smoking and talking lightly amongst themselves as you glance at the bank. 

“Should we go in?” you ask under your breath as you look up at the extent of the plain, brick building. 

“Guess we could... I gotta small bond to cash from earlier. It'd give us reason enough to get a peek in there without bein’ suspicious,” he whispers back. 

Nodding, you go in behind Arthur, and your breath catches as you enter through the double oak doors and into the bank. 

The checkered tiled floors feel different under your feet as you and Arthur step inside, the heels of your boots almost clicking against the muddied floor as you glance around, taking in the yellow striped walls and the carved wood of the desk the tellers sit behind. Bars cover the windows, and in the corner, behind the fireplace that has logs of firewood turning to embers in its hearth, is an iron door, barred like the rest of the desks. 

There’s a little bit of a line at the window with a golden-lettered sign labeling it for deposits, and you and Arthur go to queue in it as he reaches into his satchel. He takes out a small, folded up piece of paper, and it’s then that you recognize it as his bond. 

There’s a man holding everything up, and you can see how the people in front of you grow antsy and irritated as a small argument ensues at the window. 

“What’s holdin’ them up?” Arthur asks, a bit irritated, “Hear and do what you need, then git.” 

The woman in front of you both turns back, nodding and muttering, “Amen.” 

“You know what’s goin’ on?” you ask. 

The woman seems as fiery as her red dress, and she shakes her head, the plume to her hat flowing with the motion, “This man is fighting about his land. He’s tryin' to make a payment but the bank is tellin’ him it’s too late and they are takin’ it anyway. He ain’t acceptin’ it. I say they should just kick him out, but we have yet to see." 

“Thank you.” 

She nods at you both, and that was that. 

Arthur hums as the lady turns back around, and he looks to you, “Think we should come back another time?” 

Before you can answer, the man at the window throws his hands into the air, stepping back some and out of the way as the next person in line pushes him aside. 

“Finally,” the woman in front of you mutters. 

“You all are heartless people driven by greed!” 

It’s a familiar voice, and you and Arthur squint as you look ahead of yourselves, following the source of the shouting that quickly delves into a fit of coughs. 

Your eyes widen with recognition, just as Arthur’s narrow all the same. 

“ _Downes,_ ” he growls. 

The man doesn’t notice you, and you frown as you take in his state. He looks even worse than the day you had helped him out of the street after Arthur chased after Jimmy Brooks. He is paler, thinner, and sicklier. The dark, purple bags under his eyes are dark enough to almost look black, and his eyes are bloodshot, red-rimmed and veiny as he roughly coughs into his hand, the sound wet and almost clogged. 

Your heart all but stops as he pulls it away, his skin splattered with crimson that he quickly goes to wipe away. 

“He looks like he’s about to drop dead,” you murmur. 

You look over to Arthur, but you find that he isn’t at your side. Instead, he is approaching Downes, and you find yourself scrambling after him. 

The moment that Downes notices Arthur is evident, with the way he somehow even loses more color at Arthur’s appearance, and the hand that the outlaw sets onto how shoulder. 

“M-Mr. Morgan,” he seems unsettled to his core, almost as though he didn’t expect to see Arthur whatsoever, “I was just about to pay Strauss—” 

“Sure you was,” Arthur says with some bite, and he moves his hand to the small of Downes’ back, pushing him towards the door, “Now we can make sure ya do.” 

“Arthur?” you tail after them, confused as you are worried as Downes shoots you a pleading look. 

Arthur ignores you, guiding Downes out of the bank and into the muddy streets of Valentine. More carts and folk on horses pass, and Arthur grips tightly onto Downes’ blue shirt, and he all but tosses him into the streets. The few men that were at the corner of the bank watch how Arthur handles Downes, but they do nothing to offer aid to either man. 

Downes sputters some, coughing awfully and looking to Arthur with fear in his eyes as he chokes. 

“You know, I came up here earlier to find you wasn’t in town takin’ donations today. You wasn’t at ya farm, either,” Arthur growls as he comes back up on Downes, now leading him around the porch to the back of the bank, “And now, here I find ya, at the bank tryin’ to make a payment. You think we’re fools, Mr. Downes?” 

“No, no! Of course not!” Downes tries to placate Arthur as he rounds the back corner of the bank, and he looks to you then, “I don’t think any of you are fools!” 

“And yet, you treat us like we are!” 

“Arthur!” you hiss, coming up to him as Arthur shoves the man into the wall, and Downes’ lungs make an awful noise, his breath shrill and bubbly as he trembles in Arthur’s grasp. 

“You owe my business partner Leopold Strauss for the money you borrowed, what’s so difficult to understand?” Arthur snarls, his eyes as sharp as a knife as he glares at the sickly man. 

Wheezing, Downes shakes his head, “I— I have the money, I was just— the bank, they’re taking my home and land and I was just trying to—” 

“I don’t give a damn about your house— I give a damn about gettin' our money! We ain’t some _charity_ like you!” 

You come up to Arthur, gripping his hand at Downes’ throat roughly and yanking it back, “Enough, Arthur!” 

Arthur looks to you, and you glare at the man as Downes crumples off to the side. 

Arthur’s hand is balled into a fist, ready to have struck Downes and beat him just as he had done with so many other earlier that morning. The bruises, as fresh as they are damning, coloring his knuckles as you force him to put his hand back at his side. 

Growling, you give Arthur a sharp look, “We are _not_ doin’ this.” 

Arthur’s nostrils flare as he breathes sharply through them, and you can see the rage swelling within him as Downes gets up, trying to get to his feet and looking to Arthur. 

“You give me the money for your debt, and you can consider our business done. Until then, I’m sure I’ll be payin’ you some more visits until we see it finished,” Arthur threatens. 

“I— I have the m-money,” Downes says weakly, going into his pocket, reaching to get a slip of paper and handing it out to the other man then, “It’s my bond... It should be more than enough to cover what I owe!” 

“How in the hell did you get a bond?” 

Downes swallows thickly as Arthur takes the bond, and he looks then to you. His gaze is fretful and panicked, especially as Arthur begins reading the bond, his own eyes widening. 

“It’s from the last person you’d want to accept it from, but it’s all I have— you gotta believe me! They came through a few days ago and asked if I knew anything, and I thought— my family needed—” 

Glancing to Arthur, you see the man grow furious. Crumpling the bond in his hand and throwing it to the ground. 

“You _bastard,_ ” Arthur snarls. 

He’s too quick, pushing Downes into the soil. His fists fly into Downes’ face, and you rush over, pulling at Arthur’s shoulders as he begins to beat Downes senseless. 

“Arthur!” you yell, and you try to push Arthur off of Downes. 

You’re too late to spare Downes from the entirety of Arthur’s onslaught, the man’s face now a swelling, bloody mess as he coughs. 

You both lean over him, and Downes ends up messily coughing as you finally get Arthur to stop. 

Feeling Downes’ blood land on your face, you quickly pull back, going to wipe at where the offensive droplets are cooling on your skin. 

“You god damn rat!” Arthur growls, and he wipes at his own face, getting most of the splattered crimson off of his skin, but smearing it in other places, “I should kill you!” 

“God would only judge you harsher than what he already will,” Downes bites back, “You are nothin’ more than a bane to what He has created for you! You and that gang of yours—” he coughs some, blood only coming forth to land on his balled fist. 

A few people come around to the back of the bank to witness Downes in his battered state, and you look to Arthur then as the begin shouting for the law. 

“Arthur—” 

“If I see you again,” Arthur growls, his voice nothing but pure venom, “I’ll let God judge you earlier than he intends.” 

Downes swallows thickly on the ground, and Arthur curses as you hear the familiar voice of the sheriff shouting from the main road. 

“Arthur, we gotta get outta here—” 

“Come on!” 

Arthur grabs onto your wrist, and you both go and run, heading through the alleyway to the left of the bank to get back to your horses. 

You hear a few of the townsfolk yelling after you, and you and Arthur sprint across the road, nearly slipping in the mud of it as you reach your horses. 

“Hey, stop!” 

You unhitch D’or in a flash, hopping onto her saddle and turning her as Arthur does his Walker. You dig your spurs into her flanks, and she almost rears, galloping then and kicking up mud as the sheriff shouts after you both. 

“Did you have to go and fuckin’ beat him!?” you shout at Arthur as you push past the stable, heading down the road that leads out of town. 

“He ratted about us, Wolf!” Arthur growls, using a handkerchief from his satchel to wipe the rest of the blood off of his face with a disgusted expression, “That bond? It was from the Pinkertons! Signed by Agent Milton himself! And he had the damn audacity to try and pay us off with it!” 

You curse as you both head back in the direction of your camp, letting the aggravated shouts of the town die out for your own. 

“And that makes what you did right!? This ain’t an eye for an eye world! You told me yourself it’s a luxury we cannot afford!” 

Arthur shakes his head, working the reins of his Walker harshly as it gallops, “It ain’t about revenge, Wolf! He’s the reason why the Pinkertons know about us! He’s the reason that Milton confronted us at the river, that he is circlin’ us as he is! He’s a threat, not someone to get even with!” 

“He only talked ‘cause you all were after him, and his family is strugglin’ to survive! Especially since It's obvious that he is dyin’!” you hiss, “The Pinkertons are here because we led them to us, and because they’re after us for shit we did ourselves! We’ve done nothin’ but make chaos wherever we go, and you’re gonna tell me it’s a lowly, sick farmer’s fault? All ‘cause he borrowed money from Strauss?” 

Arthur grits his teeth, and you find yourself having to adjust quickly as he goes down the other fork in the road, the one that heads to the Dakota River below the juts of the landscape. Huffing at the sudden change in pace, you glare at Arthur as he pulls ahead somewhat. 

“He never could pay us back, Wolf! He borrowed that money from us and tried to run off with it! If he knew he wouldn’t make good on that loan, then why did he take it?” 

“Because it was to save his family! Not to save himself!” you shout. 

“And how would you know!?” 

“Because I did that for my father!” 

Arthur slows his horse to a stop as he comes upon the banks of the river, and he glances to you as he hops down onto its banks, “But it ain’t like that...” 

“ _How_ is it different, Arthur? Care to entertain me on that?” 

You know you offer the man a look of disgust as he goes down to the riverside, dipping his handkerchief down into the river and wringing it out. 

“You didn’t go rattin’ us out like that to save your hide...” 

“So it all just comes down to that? That he talked?” you hop off of D’or, “Don’t you dare play me for a god damn fool, Arthur.” 

“I ain’t.” 

You come upon him, watching as he wipes at his face angrily. 

“From what I saw and heard, you were lookin’ to beat him before you knew he even did such a thing. In fact, you beat plenty of other people without even needin’ that to be the reason as to why. So don’t you dare tell me it’s just because he talked to the Pinkertons.” 

“We’re on that shit again?” Arthur sighs, wringing the cloth out to where it is damp with fresh water and clean of Downes’ blood. 

“’Course we are! Because you did exactly what we were talkin’ ‘bout!” 

“I told you I didn’t want to fight about all that...” 

He brings the cloth up to your face like he’s about to clean it himself when you grab onto his wrist, stopping him. Arthur’s eyes widen some, and you rip the rag from his fingers. 

His brows furrow as you harshly run the damp cloth over your face a few times, frowning as you pull it back to find it turned pink in some places. 

Sighing, Arthur murmurs, “He wasn’t like them other debtors...” 

“Oh, don’t _start_ with the _it’s different this time_ bullshit,” you say mockingly, “He borrowed money and owed it, ain’t nothin’ changed. But for some reason, he gets you angrier than the others. Why is that? What is it about Thomas Downes that gets you so god damn spiteful, Arthur?” 

Arthur huffs, watching as you crouch to run the rag through the water again, “We aren’t analyzin’ me here.” 

“Oh, we are when you make it such a god damn issue! And if you don’t tell me, I’ll just figure it out eventually.” 

“Doubt you would,” Arthur mutters under his breath. 

Standing to level Arthur with a harsh glare, you shake your head, wringing the cloth out with an immense amount of irritation, “You know, you asked me not to feel pity for you, and I don’t. I don’t because the things you are upset over, they’re nothin’ but things you do to yourself.” 

You toss the wet rag onto Arthur, and as it lands heavily on his chest, causing the brown plaid fabric of his shirt to almost turn black as water seeps into it. The outlaw makes a face, his nose scrunching up with irritation as he plucks the wet rag from his collar. 

“You know, it’s hard for me to feel pity for ya too.” 

“That so?” you say challengingly. 

“Yeah, it is,” he takes a step closer, eyes burning into yours with a rage you’ve never quite seen directed at you, “You like to act all high n’ mighty sometimes like you’re just an angel walkin’ amongst the peasants that pray to ya. You are so god damn hypocritical of me and the people I call family, and you want me to believe that you ain’t messed up yourself? Because you know what? It’s hard to feel pity for someone when that’s all they feel for themselves.” 

Your eyes sting and your throat tightens as Arthur is almost right up against you, his chest heaving as he breathes sharply through his nose. 

“You are a god damn bastard,” you say, voice slightly breaking as your vision blurs with forming tears. 

“At least I’m truthful about what I am.” 

You don’t think about it, you simply act upon your rage. Your hands, they press and push against Arthur’s chest, forcing the man back and causing him to stumble. Tears roll down your cheeks as Arthur falls into the river, the cold water splashing up about him as he is nearly engulfed entirely in the icy water. 

You cry, chest heaving and breath catching as Arthur looks up to you, his face slackened with shock in that moment as you crumple inwardly on yourself as your hurt takes over anything else that you were feeling. 

Rushing to D’or, you hop onto her saddle, hearing Arthur call after you as you spur her forward. 

The mare reacts, kicking her hooves into the ground and galloping ahead. Arthur’s shouts grow weaker with the added distance, and you keep D’or up with her sprint. 

Instead of heading back to camp, you keeping riding forth, heading the same way you had gone with Charles that morning. Overhead, the edge of the storm clouds rolls through, rumbling lightly with thunder as the first droplets of rain begin to fall. 

How much of a fool you have been, thinking things different from what they are. 

For is that how Arthur viewed you? Nothing but a self-pitying hypocrite? 

A sob works its way out of you then, and you shake your head, as though you were trying to rid Arthur’s words from your mind, but failing. The man had been cruel in that moment, and far too harsh. But a small bit of you wondered, could any of it had held any truth? 

You get near Twin Stack Pass before you diverge off of the road, getting D’or to work up the slight incline of the land. Her nostrils flare as you find a nice flat bit near the top, offering you a good view of the road just in case Arthur planned on following you. 

You go to D’or’s saddlebags, finally quelling your upset enough to focus on the task at hand as you open up your camping kit. 

As quick as you can manage under the rain, you unfold the canvas to your tent and get its posts settled into the sodden dirt. All the while, your mind works through what Arthur said, how he looked as he said it. You weren’t expecting him to be so angry, to be so callous. 

You’re not sure what you were to him, and what he was to you. And you sure as hell didn’t now, not with the way he seemed so certain as he dug into you back at the Dakota River. 

Then again, you’re not sure about much anymore... 

Some time passes, likely some hours’ worth, as you finally sit under the canvas of your lean-to, shivering slightly in the cold as the world grows darker and colder. D’or lifts her head from where she had been grazing on the grass beside your makeshift camp, rumbling lightly at you as she watches you shiver. 

Thankfully, you had some of your stuff packed from when you had your trip in Bluewater Marsh, so your new clothes are dry, albeit dirty. Still, D’or’s gaze is accusing as she munches on her grass, her eyes lingering on yours. 

“I just don’t wanna go back there right now,” you tell the mare, “I... I can’t see his face. I don’t know what I’d do if I did...” 

She still looks at you like you’re an idiot, and you sigh. 

“I probably should head back to Horseshoe, but I won’t. Ain’t no look from you gonna change my mind, so enough of the judgment,” huffing, you flick mud off of your boot to where the rain falls heavily past the cover of your tent, “You don’t even understand what’s goin’ on anyways... You’re just a horse...” 

D’or lowers her head, going back to eating and allowing you to sigh as you pull your blanket from your bedroll around yourself. 

Practically all that isn’t soaked is what you have in your satchel, so you suppose the smart thing to do is to go inside and see what is in there that could possibly be used for kindling. Beside you, the small lantern you have lit offers an orange glow as you part the leather satchel to gaze upon its contents. 

You scrummage around in it for some moments, and as you reach into one of its side pockets, you feel paper crinkle under your fingertips. 

Feeling some amount of relief, you pull the parchment out, only for the feeling to die off as you realize what you are holding. 

It’s the letter, the one from your mother. 

A sinking feeling comes to your gut, and you wonder... Should you read her letter, or burn it instead? After all, it is what you threatened to do whenever the prospect crossed you. 

And yet . . . 

Your lips part as you undo the envelope, your desire for flames dying out as you take in the scrawl of your mother’s handwriting on the paper. 

_Fluer._

Your fingers are cautious as you go along the creases, unfolding the pages until they are laid out in their entirety to you. 

And so, you begin reading. 

_My darling little flower, oh how you have grown..._

_You have changed so much since I saw you, so many years ago. No longer are you the little girl I remember and held within memory. You are a beautiful, strong woman that I have yet to know..._

_Seeing you that day, standing before me when I never thought I would see you again, words cannot describe the way I felt both enraptured and heartbroken. To see you as you are now, with no idea or guidance to how you got there..._

_I still feel that now as I write this, both so eager to try and connect with my daughter, but terrified of the idea that I will not be worthy of such a permittance._

_I would not fault you for wishing that my hopes rot as these letters, or that as I will one day — as you thought I did so many years ago..._

_Seeing how you looked at me, in both disbelief and betrayal... I know that asking for such a chance is nothing more than selfish of me..._

_But, even if you do not wish to extend such an allowance, I feel that if anyone is owed something, it is an explanation to you. The look of why in your eyes, the hurt that you bore. If there is one thing I can find peace in, it is that my daughter knows everything I wish to have told her all this time, even if she hates me only more for it..._

_You were right. I am a wanted woman, specifically in the state of Lemonye and the city of Saint Denis. I have been for many years, since before you were even born... And it is what caused all of this between us._

_I arrived in Saint Denis after fleeing France from an arranged marriage my family wished for me to go forward with, now over thirty years ago... The man was hateful and spiteful, and so I paid for passage to America, where I was told every man and woman were to be free._

_I was only nineteen, as naïve as I was young, and I spoke only fragments of English. I got by from those who could speak French in the city, and I ended up finding myself being plucked off of the streets by a man who tried to offer me help. But I soon realized there was more to his favors than just kindness as their motive, and I soon found myself in the same predicament as I was back in France..._

_A man vying for my hand for when I did not wish to give it, and so, they wished to take it by force..._

_So I began to plot my escape from the city that I had once thought would give me freedom. And while I did so, that is how I met William, your father._

_He was kind and understanding, patient and sweet. When he found out about my situation, he vowed to help me escape, to get me out of Saint Denis no matter the personal cost to himself. He had just opened a stall with the Trapper you mentioned, down in the market place in Saint Denis. Together they were helping slaves escape the city, and your father, he was to help me as he was with them despite all the risk it would cause him._

_I knew I loved him the day I met him, as silly as it sounds... He only ever viewed me for what I was, not as a woman he could change to become something more desirable for himself..._

_He is the one who gave me my carbine, the one I am most known for. He respected what I was, and cherished it. And I found that in no other man, who wanted nothing more than to mold me into what they wanted..._

_The man who had housed me when I initially came to the city eventually corralled me and attempted to blackmail me into doing as he wanted. He was going to have me shipped back to France unless I decided to wed him. No wasn’t an answer, nor was it received well when I gave it anyway. And so, I tried to kill him._

_The problem was, apart from not succeeding, he was an affluent man in Saint Denis, and not for good reasons. He quickly sent his men after me, and I haven’t gotten a reprieve since..._

_For all the grief that it is has caused me, I cannot lie to you and say that I regret it. If anything, I regret letting that bastard live. But when my attempt failed, I had to flee Saint Denis._

_Your father helped me. And instead of letting me run on my own, he came with me. Together we came up with names for ourselves, and that is when we decided to share our identity as Mr. and Mrs. Broce. We got as far as Havenwood Plantation before we decided to try and settle around Blackwater, far west, enough in our minds to escape what we had left behind back east._

_And some months after I had fled, when I turned twenty, I discovered that I was pregnant._

_He helped with that too..._

You sniffle, laughing some despite everything. 

_Your father proposed to me, under the gazebo by the town hall in Blackwater, with a bouquet of orchids in hand._

_We had no ring because we couldn’t afford one, but I didn’t need it to say yes. Your father had already given me such beautiful things— freedom, love, and a daughter I could not wait for..._

_We wed at the Blackwater church, the service was very quiet and small. I didn’t wear a dress, and he didn’t wear a tux, but it mattered none to us. Our honeymoon consisted of going to the bank, buying a plot of land, and edging on each other’s excitement for the life we planned to lead together._

_We bought a plot outside of Tall Trees, and we built a cabin together, the one that you grew up in. You made me sick almost every morning, so I, unfortunately, could only watch as your father helped build our home. But as you grew with each passing day, so did my love for you and the life I found myself living..._

_But there was always a fear. A fear that the life I led before this would come back to haunt me. That my reputation as the Black Belle would destroy all that I had tried to create outside of its reach._

_And then, that day came._

_I tried to be willfully ignorant of it happening as more time passed, but your father never lost that paranoia. And, I suppose for good reason when they had found me. I remember the gunfire, the tears on your face and the fear on William’s as I forced you to hide under our bed._

_I made sure to kill every last one of the bastards..._

_They knew nothing about you or your father, which was a blessing, but also, a curse. I knew that if those men had known about you, that you would only ever be seen as something to attack me with. That you would not be seen as a child, but as a pawn in a war you had no place in._

_You were nothin’ but an innocent little girl, just shy of five. I saw the world in your eyes, a sparkle of a bright future within them... The thought of any of those bastards trying to snuff that out to get to me was beyond measure the most painful thought to even bear._

_And so I knew that all I could do was run. To lead those men away from you and your father, so that you could be spared the fight I brought onto myself._

_Your father and I had discussed things before, for if they had found us. And so he knew what was to happen... You couldn’t know. A child your age, you couldn’t understand. You wouldn’t grasp why I had to leave, and why I couldn’t come back. And in case those men ever did find you, there had to be no reason for them to think you knew anything..._

_And so I knew that, with time and explanation from your father, that it would just seem as though I’d passed away and that was that. I would disappear from your life so that you could live it, as much as it agonized me to do so._

_I had to rip myself away, as though I was breaking bones. I think I cried every day for a month straight as I rode further east, where your father and I vowed to never go again together. And I have cried every night since._

_All I could see in my mind was the way you were torn up, your hand held out after me. All I could hear was your crying and your screams as you begged me to stay._

_And your father, holding you back despite his wishes for the same._

_Knowing that was the last time I saw William... It hurts in a way I cannot describe to you. And I do not say that for your pity, or two sway you in my favor. I loved your father as much as I did you. Fierce and profound._

_Leaving you both was like I had died, that day. I was nothing more than a ghost, a shadow of what I once was._

_Because my heart was still with you both. My life, it could only be lived while I was his wife, and your mother._

_I have spent every day since in longing, in reflection and in daydreams. There was nothing more that I wanted than to run back to you both. To let myself grow old with that idiot of a man, and to watch the beauty that was our daughter grow into her potential._

_Fleur. My precious Fleur._

_Our little Wolf... Though, you aren’t so little anymore._

_There is not anything I could wish for more than to have seen you flourish into what you are now, like the first buds of flowers in the spring, sprouting with the promise of blooming into something magnificent. You are nothing short of a composition of stunning beauty and burning grace, and I am nothing short of humble to bear witness to your florescence._

_With how you handled yourself at my cabin... I have no doubts that my daughter is more of a harbinger of hell to those who strife her than what I could ever accomplish myself. And for that I am proud._

_I have wanted nothing more than to see you grow into something more than what the world expects of you. Lacking the submission of a housewife, and having the fire and rage of the sun in its place. Far too often do people look at us women and expect us to lie down and take it— to act as they desire, to change as they desire, to be what they desire. We are often the ornaments in their lives. Meant to be pretty and nothing more than a trinket to bring them their pleasures._

_And to see you as your own person..._

_You did not need me to become that, and I could not ever be more grateful. For the simple reality that— you did not need me to come into your own._

_Your... friend. Suppose we should call him that... He gave me this chance to write to you, and for that, I could not ever be more grateful. I know that you may not write me back, nor even read this letter, but I did get the opportunity to send it. To write down what I have wanted to tell you for so long, even if briefly. My hand may ache, but it does not compare to the hurt I’ve felt from keeping you from this for so long._

_That man, Arthur I believe is what you called him... I owe a great deal to him for simply offering this alias to write to. Now, I’m not sure what you have done to warrant such a cover, let alone the bounty that you mentioned while we waited out those bastards in the swamps... but I would love to hear about it._

_And of course, I would love to know more about this Arthur “friend” of yours. He rather sweetens my tea, as I’ve seen he does for yours. Any man who seems to have earned a place at your side warrants some explanation, no?_

_Of course, if you wish to refrain from talking to me about him, or any of this in general, that is fine. I sent this letter knowing there is a distinct possibility I will never see anything come of it. But, I wanted to try. To make the attempt. To have some hope that I could have my daughter in my life once more, even if just by having her writing to me._

_I hope that this letter finds you well, and—_

“What are you readin’?" 

You jump, your blurry eyes finding the source of that scratchy, familiar voice. 

In front of your tent, holding a lantern as he is pelted with rain, is none other than John Marston. His freshly scarred face is pinched, and he looks to the letter that your trembling fingers hold onto. 

“It’s... It’s a long story...” 

“I’m sure a lot of this is,” the man comes forward, and you make space for him within your lean-to as you see Old Boy come up to D’or, “You know, Arthur sent me to come find you.” 

Bitterly, you snark, “The man himself not willin’ to face me?” 

“No. It ain’t that... He told me you probably didn’t wanna see him right now,” John corrects as he sets a bag down inside your tent, and you feel some of your fire die out as you wipe at your face, “I ain’t ever seen him as wet as he was shut in... What happened between you two?” 

“I— I pushed him into the river... But... We were fightin’,” you sniff, unable to look at John as he settles down beside you on the ground, “I said a lotta things, he said a lotta things... ain’t none of it good.” 

John hums, and he looks out in front of your tent then, “So you decided to split off. Run up here.” 

“I don’t think I could look at him right now," you murmur, pulling your knees to your chest. 

“You plannin’ on stayin’ here tonight, then?” John asks. 

Pausing, you squeeze at your shoulders, and you shake your head, voice barely audible. 

“Don’t think I could go back...” 

At that, John nods, water dripping from the rim of his leather hat and down onto the ground below. His thin lips press together, and you watch as the man goes to his own satchel, grabbing out some materials and setting them down onto the ground as he stands. 

Eyeing him oddly, you watch as he steps back out into the rain, his back facing you as you put your letter from your mother back into your satchel. 

“What are you doin’?” you ask softly. 

“Makin’ us a fire,” he says simply, “We’re gonna need it out here tonight.” 

Your eyes widen as you see John go to Old Boy, opening the stallion’s saddlebags to pull out some kindling as you process his words. 

Uncaring for the sodden ground below, the man kneels down on one knee, hovering above his kindling to keep it dry as he looks to you. 

“Hand me that stuff, will ya?” 

You offer it to him, allowing the man to gather his things as he begins to build his fire at the edge of your tent, right where the rain stops, and not too far in to cause any worry about its proximity. He sets his stones upon the ground, allowing his kindling to be above the damp dirt as he places it onto the rocks before he grabs a match. Using the heel of his boot, he lights it, using one hand to cover the end of the match from the rain before he brings the burning end of it into the kindling. 

It lights up easily, the flames flickering to life as John stands, stepping over the growing fire to where his bag resides inside your tent. 

“I brought some dry wood along, so we can keep it goin’ throughout the night. I also have some other stuff in there, like food or anythin’ else we might need. It’s light, but It'll do us.” 

As a few fresh tears roll down your cheeks, you look to John with bewilderment. 

“Why are you doin’ this?” 

The man looks to you, the marred skin of his scars looking almost red in the firelight as his brown eyes narrow on yours. 

“I’m not gonna lie and say this is purely for you. I planned on headin’ up this way to camp because the farmhands from Emerald Ranch are plannin’ on takin’ their sheep through here, and I plan on rustlin’ ‘em... But, I’m not here for just that, either.” 

The man sighs as he settles down beside you, opening his bag to grab out some cans of food as he continues. 

“Arthur knows you’re here, but he said he couldn’t come up to make sure you were alright. Knows it’ll only just cause y’all more problems,” John grabs a can of apricots and hands them to you, murmuring, “So he sent me to do the honors.” 

Blinking, you accept the can and take it gingerly, holding it in your hands as you mutter, “You’re the last person I’d expect to do that...” 

“We had a rocky start, I’ll admit that... I’m by no means a great man, nor a smart one, but I’m not entirely blind... I meant it when I said I misjudged you and was too harsh. And you were right to call me out, for that and for disregardin’ what you did for Jack... I’m a fool. But I ain’t heartless.” 

You swallow as you take your hunting knife off of your belt, working its sharp tip through the tin of the can as you speak, “So you’re here. Partly because you have a job to do, and partly because you’re not a complete bastard...” 

“I was comin’ up here to camp when Arthur stopped me and asked me to find you,” he explains, “I had no idea you’d even run off on him, or what was happenin’ between the two of you until then.” 

Snorting, you pop the top from the can, and you stick your knife down into its contents, spearing one of the halves of apricot with your knife as you snip, “Thought things weren’t so great between you two, either.” 

“Arthur and I may go for each other’s throats, but that man is my brother. I’d die for him as soon as I’d put a bullet in him.” 

You can’t help it, a small, quiet snicker works its way out of you at those words. For its appearance, John smirks, the corner of his mouth quirking before he continues. 

“He’s just mad at me because of a dumb choice I made. A real dumb choice... and it’s warranted. I just fight back because I’d rather forget it happened and move on, but Arthur... that man holds onto things,” John opens his own can of corn, shaking his head, “He and I have always felt like we was at odd ends. Ever since we were young, too. So it ain’t new.” 

Humming, you take a bit of apricot, the taste and tang of it sweet on your tongue as you murmur around it as you chew, “He told me a little bit about that... About you two growin’ up together.” 

“He doesn’t like to talk about it much. There’s a lot back then that he doesn’t want to remember, and not just with me,” John grabs a spoon from his bag, huffing, “Guess this has just dredged a lot of it up for him. ‘Specially since he read the letter that Mary sent him.” 

You pause, swallowing your mouthful almost painfully as you look to the other outlaw. 

“He... He read her letter?” 

“Yeah. It was right after he got back to camp today apparently. Turned what money he got into Strauss and just started readin’ it... I was hopin’ he learned better, but if there’s one thing Arthur is, it’s loyal when he ain’t gotta be.” 

You lower your can, practically uninterested in eating anymore. 

“Who is Mary?” 

John stops eating his corn, his cheeks puffed out with it as though he were a chipmunk. The man swallows roughly, droplets of juice from his food dribbling off of his skin before he wipes at it with his jacket sleeve. 

Once cleaned up and able, he sets his own can down to his lap as he talks. 

“She was his fiancé.” 

The words hit you like a bullet to the gut, and you pale, your fingers feeling like they are stone as you stare down to your can of food. 

“Oh...” 

“It ain’t truly my place to talk about it, but... she’s always had Arthur wrapped around her finger, one way or another. Only a few people have ever gotten to do that to him.” 

You aren’t able to speak as you numbly stare out into the dark expanse of the plains before you, and John notices your state. 

“You... You don’t like that, do you?” 

Laughing depreciatingly, you wipe at your eyes, “Observant, are you?” 

“I’m not that much of a bastard,” he reiterates, and you bite at your lip as he goes on, “Listen... Mary, she had Arthur’s heart once. And while he may still act like an idiot because of that, doesn’t mean she still has it.” 

You shake your head, “I think you're misunderstandin'—” 

“There ain’t much to misunderstand,” his interruption is spoken so matter-of-factly that your words of rebuttal die miserably on your tongue, “You care about him.” 

Crying, you nod, your voice as brittle as you feel in that moment, “Y-Yeah... Yeah, I do...” 

“He cares about you too, ya know...” 

Shaking your head, you wipe at your eyes vigorously, “Sure as hell don’t feel like it right now...” 

The other man sighs, running a hand down his face. You turn away from him, trying to quell your tears once more as John takes his hat off of his head. 

“Listen... I’m not really the best person for talkin’ to when it comes to emotions, and I know that `these words don’t mean shit comin’ outta my mouth... but... sometimes Arthur lets his anger get the best of him. And when he does, he’s downright hurtful. We both have that in common,” John looks to you then, “But don’t think for a moment that he doesn’t care. Because I know better than anyone that you have to care deeply about somethin’ to get that angry over it.” 

Sniffling, your bottom lip wobbles as you force yourself to look away. 

A hand settles on your shoulder, and John’s voice is as gentle as the rainfall past the canvas overhead. 

“Think it’s best if you try to sleep this off,” he tells you, “We’ll deal with everythin’ come mornin’. For now, just sleep, and save it for later.” 

You sigh shakily, laying down as the other man still faces the world outside of your tent. And as you eye his back, your gaze as heavy as it is tear-filled, you find your voice again. 

“John?” you whisper. 

The man turns to you, eyeing you over his shoulder. 

“Thank you...” 

Turning back, the man’s shoulders fall some, “Go on, get some rest...” 

You smile lightly but fall back to your bedroll. Pulling the thick cover from it over yourself, your eyelids close gently, and you let out a deep breath. 

For the first time in a while, you fall asleep easily, and the world fades to black.

**\---**

_Fangs rip into flesh, and a cry is echoed out unto the world._

The wolf circles, growling with reddened saliva dripping from its maw. It circles, fangs bared as the doe struggles upon the ground. 

The doe cries, its front flank bleeding and torn apart by the wolf and its bite. Struggling, its wide, black eyes land on the wolf as its chest rises and falls with panic. 

Especially as the wolf lifts its head, howling icily into the morning air. Its breath billows out, and the doe scrambles against the grass below as something shifts within the bushes some distance away. 

Through the leaves, there is a flash of a white coat, and the deer watches in fear as the foliage parts, and another wolf appears. 

Trembling, the doe attempts to stand, trying but failing as it does with its injured leg. 

The white wolf eyes it, joining its black partner at its side as it licks its lips, eyeing where the doe struggles on the ground. It’s nostrils flare, picking up on the doe’s scent as it comes closer, eyeing the doe and letting the hint of a snarl dance across its lips. 

The wolf is only a few inches away from the doe when something crashes through the trees, and barrels into the white wolf’s side. 

The black wolf roars, teeth exposed as its white partner is tossed to the side, partially gouged by the antlers of the buck. 

Its once white fur turns red on its side as it bleeds, whining as it goes to stand and limps as it tries to walk. The black wolf growls, lowering down on its haunches as the buck stamps its hoof, standing in front of the doe as she cries in pain and attempts to stand herself. 

The black wolf and the buck stare at one another then, their next move held precariously within that moment as they wait on the other. 

And it is with the first step of the wolf announced by a thunderous battle cry, and the lowering of the buck’s head, its antlers aimed like sharpened spears, that begins the fight between their sides anew.

**\---**

Consciousness comes slowly to you, and it feels like you have to peel your eyelids apart as you wake.

Your body is stiff from where you have slept on the ground, and you groan, wiping at your eyes and looking out to where you see John messing with Old Boy’s saddle outside of your tent. The rain from yesterday is still here, but it has lightened to the point of a near drizzle as you frown at the man before you. 

“Did you even sleep?” you groan, sitting up and shaking your head some to get the rest of the sleepiness out of it. 

“I did, yeah. But it’s mornin’,” John murmurs, “Those ranchers are supposed to be comin’ up the way sometime soon. Didn’t wanna miss ‘em.” 

Nodding, you stand, stretching some as you put your hat onto your head. 

“Care if I come with?” 

John ponders it for a moment, and his eyes shift to D’or’s saddle and to where the Rolling Block rifle that Charles had given you rests within one of its holsters. 

“Where’d you get that?” 

“Charles,” you say, coming forward, “What’s it matter?” 

“Think I know how things are gonna go now,” the man hums, and his stringy, black hair shifts as he points to the road, “Think you can fire that far out?” 

Frowning, you stop by D’or, and the mare looks to you as you ask, “Am I tryin’ to hit someone?” 

“No. Just near ‘em. Near enough to scare ‘em off,” John explains, “They’re ranch hands, and I’m sure they’re underpaid for it too. With the weather as its been, they probably had to stay up all night keepin’ the herd together. Figure all it’ll take is one bullet hittin’ the soil by their feet, and they’ll just let us have ‘em at this point.” 

Nodding, you unstrap your rifle as the rain soaks into your shirt, “And after that?” 

“We ride down and we rustle them back together. Hopefully we can get all of them, but as long as we have the main bit of the herd, I won’t complain much.” 

Snorting, you ready your rifle as you quirk a brow, “What’s this all for, anyway?” 

“There’s a man at the auction yard in Valentine who offered me a cut from what he’ll get bringin’ them in. Says that with the auction comin’ up in two weeks, no one will really question where the sheep came from, long as they get ‘em.” 

Deeming your rifle fit and ready, you lower it to your side, letting out a breath as you eye the main road cutting through the plains down below, “How much did he say he was gonna give you?” 

“Not sure yet. Said he was gonna tell me once I had the sheep.” 

“Sounds reputable.” 

“Often is,” John brings a pair of binoculars up to his face to peer down at the road below, “Listen, long as we get our cut and we don’t get grief from the law, I’m not complainin’ then neither. Money is money, and as long as I’m bringin’ it in and gettin' us closer to leaven this place, I’m not gonna pass up nothin’.” 

You tilt your head then, thinking over John’s words as you hear the sound of someone approaching. 

“You expectin’ company?” you ask, both confused and antsy as you ready your rifle. 

John frowns, lowering his binoculars as whoever is coming rides upon the ridge of where you all are camped out. 

“No. But I’m not sure you want this kind...” 

It’s Arthur, rolling up on his Walker and scowling lightly as he approaches. You stiffen, especially as Arthur’s eyes shift to you and his expression only sours further. 

You lower your gun from where you had it aimed in his direction, but only just. 

He stops his Walker a foot or so away from your tent, hopping down from it until he begins to walk over to John, something held under his arm as he asks, “You seen ‘em yet?” 

“Why are you here?” you hiss. 

Arthur frowns, but he holds out his arm. It’s then that you see a worn leather jacket that Arthur holds out to you. 

You send him a glare, but the man sighs. 

“Swallow your pride and take it. Last thing you need to be is sick ‘cause you let yourself get soaked.” 

“Guess you should worry about yourself after yesterday then,” you mutter as you snatch the jacket from his hands. 

John whistles, a small smile playing on his lips as he goes back to spy on the road with his binoculars. 

Arthur’s face has a flicker of irritation pass over it, but he shakes his head, water falling off of his leather hat as he looks to John then. 

“Can we just get to rustlin’ these damn sheep?” 

“Once they get here, then yeah,” John makes a face as Arthur snatches his binoculars away to peer through them himself, “I can’t just make them appear for your sake.” 

“And you never answered my question,” you press then as you work on the leather jacket, frowning as it carries Arthur’s scent of tobacco and gunpowder. 

Sighing, the outlaw lowers the binoculars, his back somewhat facing you then, “I came down here because John knows jack shit about herdin’, and I figured you all would need the help with the storm havin’ not cleared.” 

John glares at Arthur then, huffing, “I ain’t a helpless milksop, Arthur.” 

“Last time you tried to do somethin’ on your own, you nearly got eaten by wolves. So by that definition, you _are_ a helpless milksop,” the outlaw says nonchalantly, “I at least have done some ranchin’ on the side. So I know how these things go.” 

Rolling his eyes, John spits on the ground before muttering, “Oh, now here we go...” 

“The storm’s gonna have ‘em all riled up. And considerin’ I know how you are, you plan on runnin’ off the ranch hands in a way that’ll only terrify them sheep too.” 

There’s an awkward silence after his words then as John’s brow pinches. 

“Tell me I’m wrong on that—” 

“Can’t you just butt outta somethin’ for once, Arthur?” John growls, “Can’t you tell neither of us wants you here?” 

“You may not want me, but you sure as shit need me—” 

“ _Enough._ ” 

Both of the men turn to you, and your expression must say a lot as both men duck their heads once they meet it head-on. 

“I am in no mood for you two bickerin’ like children. I say we get this job done without a god damn peep outta any of us unless necessary. Otherwise, you two are gonna spook those sheep by the way you’re bickerin’ for the whole plains to hear.” 

John pouts lightly as Arthur mutters something under his breath. 

Rolling your eyes, you look to the road, only then to curse as you see what’s coming down it. 

“Shit! See what I mean!?” 

You raise your rifle as the two other men curse themselves, with John scrambling to get on Old Boy while Arthur raises his binoculars. 

The ranch hands are about a mile or so out, with what looks like thirty sheep in tow. You’re a tiny bit grateful for Arthur’s presence, knowing that in a storm like this, it would’ve been hell to hold onto with just you and John manning the reins. 

Aiming your rifle, you place the crosshairs onto the ground a few feet in front of the first ranch hand as he guides his horse down the road at the front of the heard. 

Firing, the shot rings out loudly, cracking through the air just as a clap of thunder would. The ranch hands would have no idea of its true origin had it not been for the way the ground erupts into a spray of mud before the first ranch hand. 

His horse rears, and you can see them shouting as the sheep begin to run. 

“Fire a couple of more times!” John instructs, “Let ‘em know we’re serious!” 

Arthur scoffs, “And only scare the sheep more—” 

You fire once more, cutting the man off as the ranch hands seem to get the picture as they begin to flee just as the herd does. 

“Shit!” John curses, and you lower your gun as the man spurs Old Boy forward. 

Without prompting, you and Arthur rush to your own horses as John rides forward, the herd splitting up in multiple places as the ranch hands all gallop away on their horses. You and Arthur end up side by side, spurring your horses forth as John rides a little bit ahead of you both. 

“I told you not to fire again!” Arthur frowns, glancing over to you as he rides his Walker roughly through the wet, overgrown grass and mud. 

“Oh shut up, would you!?” you shout back, urging for D’or to go just a little faster. 

Ignoring the anger that flares within you, you look to how the herd breaks apart into three parts with about ten or so sheep each, all of which head into separate directions as the ranch hands disappear down the length of road. 

“Split up! Each of us takes a piece of the herd, and we bring them all back together!” you shout. 

The two men nod at you as you spur D’or, pulling forward past Arthur as you go to where one of the factions of the herd crosses over the road and heads in an opposite direction of the other two parts entirely. 

“I got this one! You two get the rest!” 

You depart from the others, chasing after your targeted chunk of the herd as you come upon them. 

Admittedly, you had never herded sheep either, but the animals were easy to read. You quickly picked up on how they seemed to run from you, and so, by coming up around to the left of the last of them, the sheep soon began to steer right. All of them are running and crying as you began to guide them back in the direction the main road, keeping pace with them at their rear to work them as you dictated. 

Coming across the road with your part of the herd, you see Arthur with his part already wrangled and working with him, whereas John is still struggling. You see how one of the sheep has broken off from his bit, running off and leaving behind the herd altogether. 

“Goddammit!” the outlaw curses. 

“Arthur, take my part! I’ll go get the straggler!” 

Arthur nods to you as your sheep meld into his, the animals shifting around each other in unease as Arthur circles them, allowing you to spur D’or to chase after the lone sheep. 

The poor thing is shaking and calling out for the others as you come upon it, and it doesn’t take much convincing for it to run away from you as you round it, keeping pace behind it as you guide it back towards the now collected herd. 

You see John and Arthur arguing, even at this distance, and you mutter a curse under your breath as you guide the last sheep back to the others. 

“—you god damn idiot!” Arthur shouts, “What did you think was gonna happen!?” 

“We got the ranch hands away and the sheep are all accounted for, what’s the big issue, Arthur?” 

Their shouting ceases somewhat as you approach, and you shake your head as you grit your teeth together as the last sheep joins back with the rest. 

“Nothin’...” Arthur mutters, and you can tell that he acknowledges your presence, but he refuses to look at you as his Walker shifts from underneath him, “What do we do with them now?” 

“There’s a man at the auction yard back in Valentine. He’s the one we gotta deliver them to.” 

“What about our camp?” you interject. 

Sighing, John runs a hand over his face. 

“Just... leave it for now. I’ll swing back by and gather it up. It’s more important we get these sheep to that man before they go runnin’ every which way again.” 

You hum softly as you look to the herd once more, “Then how do you wanna ride with ‘em?” 

“You seemed to do a pretty good job at runnin’ after them,” John says, “Suppose you take up the back while Arthur and I man the sides and ride shank. That way we can keep any more from breakin’ off again.” 

With some defeat, Arthur mutters, “Works for me.” 

The three of you position yourselves around the herd, with you at the back, and with John to its right and Arthur to its left. You set the pace, working D’or into a simple trot as Arthur and John frame the herd as it begins to move. 

“Now aren’t you glad I came along?” Arthur says to John then. 

“I might be. But don’t gloat in it,” John edges then. 

Arthur chuckles, shaking his head then. 

You remain quiet, but you glare at the back of Arthur’s head without issue. 

But, breaking through the moment, John glances to you from over his shoulder, “You did well though, Ms. Broce. Kinda glad you offered to help.” 

“You can call me Wolf, but... I don’t know much about herdin’,” you admit, “But I do what I can when I can.” 

Nodding, John looks back ahead of him then, “That’s good. This here should get us a decent amount of money if the auctioneer keeps his word.” 

“Wait— you mean to tell me that you don’t even know how much you’re gettin' for this?” Arthur says in disbelief. 

Your eyes shift back to John as you and the sheep pass by your camp set at the edge of Twin Stack Pass, and the man’s shoulders stiffen at Arthur’s words. 

“I didn’t even know if I was goin’ to be gettin' the sheep.” 

“God, Marston, you are as dull as rusted iron sometimes.” 

John glares across the mass of sheep to the other outlaw opposite of him, “You’re one to talk!” 

“I ain’t really.” 

John shakes his head then, “All I’ve heard is bluster come out of your mouth. I’m just tryin’ to earn money for the gang so we can get the hell outta dodge. The sooner we’re outta here, the sooner we can head back west and collect the Blackwater money and be done with all this. That doesn’t seem dull to me.” 

“If we go back to collect the money in Blackwater, it’ll come with a noose,” Arthur growls, “The Pinkertons are already here, and they know that we are. God damn Downes ratted on us, and the last thing we need to be doin’ is gettin' our hands dirty without knowin’ how clean the getaway will be!” 

“But Dutch said—” 

“Dutch says a lotta things. That’s his gift, and I know it better than anyone,” Arthur starts, “We don’t have the room to be makin’ mistakes by bein’ so blind, John! We gotta be smart about this!” 

“As smart as beatin’ Downes in front of everyone in Valentine?” 

Arthur glances back to you, and his face is set in a peculiar way as you lock your eyes onto his for just a moment before he has to turn back around to keep on riding ahead. 

“It ain’t like that, Wolf.” 

“Sure it isn’t. You can ride a horse or a donkey. The only difference is that an ass is doin’ it the other time around. Sure you know all about that, Arthur,” you grit out. 

Despite your venom, John chuckles, “God. Glad I ain’t sellin’ you short no more, Wolf.” 

Arthur looks between you both, unsettled as he is displeased as he grips onto the reins of his Walker tightly, “Glad to see that you two have made friends with one another.” 

“A lot happens when you accept that you were wrong,” John taunts. 

“You don’t know nothin’ about what happened—” 

“Didn’t say I did,” John hums as you come upon Citadel Rock outside of Valentine, “All I know is that you two are spittin’ at each other more than someone who’s chewin’ Jolly Jacks. That’s for you two to work out. I suggest doin’ more than offerin’ a leather jacket as a subtle apology or attempt at a truce.” 

“I wasn’t—” 

“Sure you weren’t.” 

You flush lightly as Arthur glances back to you, his eyes only lingering on you for a split second before he forces himself to pay attention to the muddy road before him, and the antsy herd of sheep at his side. 

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talkin’ about Marston,” Arthur snarls lowly as you ride into town. 

“Sure I don’t. It’s not like I’ve known you ‘bout fifteen years and grew up with ya,” John jokes without humor, “The only ones with wool over their eyes are the sheep here.” 

The outlaw looks almost murderous as he looks over to John, “You’re lucky that puttin’ a bullet in ya is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“Whatever. Just shut up. We’re here.” 

Arthur thankfully does, pressing his lips together as John somewhat rides ahead of you both. There is already a man waiting at the auction yard, and he pulls apart the lopsided wooden gate as John rides up to it. 

The sheep follow him as you pull up behind them, and they go into the yard, bustling about as Arthur stops at the outside of it where another man eyes you all cautiously. His cheekbones are about as stark as his judgment as you approach, his finger brushing through his mustache before sweeping back his brown hair from under his hat as you slow D’or down. 

John is already getting off of Old Boy as the final sheep goes inside the paddock, and the other man shuts the gate as you and Arthur come off of your horses. 

“Fine sheep,” John says, nodding to the man. 

“They’re okay,” he says, crossing his arms then as he regards John. 

“Well, you’ve seen better around here?” Arthur snips as you both join John before the man. 

Snorting, the man tilts his head, his bemused expression as subtle as the red stripes against his teal coat, “I’ve seen ones with less... _ambiguity_ about their provenance.” 

The man with him chuckles, muttering, “A lot less...” 

“What are you tryna say?” Arthur’s voice lowers as he takes a step closer to the men, his eyes shifting dangerously between them both. 

“Arthur,” John steps in then, placing a hand on Arthur’s chest and forcing him to redact his advancement as John looks back to the other men, “Sorry about my friend. The weather made things more difficult than we’d have liked.” 

The man hums, tilting his chin upward as he regards Arthur. 

And even with John’s hand on his chest, you can tell that Arthur wants to do nothing more than attack the bastard before him. 

“What I’m trying to say,” the man starts mockingly, “is that if you give me twenty-five percent kickback, I won’t tell anyone ‘bout these okay sheep and how they got here.” 

Arthur’s brows furrow as he pushes up against John’s hand as his face scrunches furiously, “Excuse me?” 

“Sure, I’ll excuse you. For twenty-five percent.” 

Leaning forward, Arthur growls, “You want me to put another hold in your head, mister?” 

“I don’t think you understand, _mister._ Folks swing ‘round these parts for rustlin’ livestock. It’s twenty-five percent, or you do the honors of testin’ the strength of our sheriff’s ropes,” the man then glances between you and Arthur, “Especially you two. The law has a small bounty on your heads for what you did to that poor farmer, Mr. Downes.” 

Gritting his teeth together, Arthur’s eyes narrow on the man, “That ain’t got nothin’ to do with this.” 

“Does when you’re the one bringin’ me these sheep. I could easily shout for the law, and what could you do then, partner?” the man chuckles as he moves his eyes to you, “Heard that his poor boy had to ride him home on the back of his horse like he was nothin’ but the corpse you left him lookin’ like.” 

“I should put a bullet in ya—” 

Before Arthur can finish his threat, John steps in front of Arthur then, “Fifteen percent.” 

Arthur steps back, shaking his head in utter disbelief and irritation as the man looks to John, barking out, “Twenty.” 

“ _Eighteen,_ ” John muses then. 

Humming, the man shrugs, “Done.” 

The two shake on it, and Arthur throws his hands in the air, pacing behind them both angrily as you watch. 

The man looks to Arthur, holding out his hand for their agreement. 

For as much upset you know it causes the outlaw, he shakes, gripping onto the man’s hand a bit tight as he grins to Arthur. 

“Calm yourself, friend. Just think of it as me buyin’ your sins...” 

Shoving his hand back somewhat, Arthur snaps, “Yeah, you’re buyin’, but we’re payin’.” 

“Goodbye now.” 

Arthur shakes his head, turning with John as they begin to walk away. You fall in line at John’s side, while Arthur flanks his other. You can hear Arthur muttering angrily under his breath as you approach your horses, the men at the auction yard already laughing as they go about to mill and mind their supposed business. 

“And I thought we were supposed to be _makin’_ money on this,” Arthur hisses lowly to John as you all reach your horses, “ _Eighteen percent?_ We might as well have become the sheep.” 

“Listen, we are makin’ money off of this, just not as much as we thought we would,” John mutters as he saddles up on Old Boy, leaving you and Arthur standing to look at him. 

“Look at you. Can’t herd, can’t swim... and now look at us.” 

“Be an ass as much as you’d like, but it’s better than nothin’. And we need more than nothin’ right now,” John grimaces then as he backs Old Boy up, “I’m gonna get that camp torn down. I’ll be back in a little bit... Dutch said he was gonna meet us up later in this small place down here on this end of the strip, the Keane’s Saloon.” 

Sighing and relenting just barely Arthur grouches, “We know of it...” 

“Good. Should be in about half an hour or so that he’ll be swingin’ by with Strauss. They’re overlookin’ our funds, tryin’ to see how far we got till we can run outta this place for good.” 

“Think they’ll be tickled pink to hear about how much we just made off this rustlin’ job for them.” 

Rolling his eyes, John makes an offer, “I’ll buy you both a drink then. How does that sound?” 

Waving a hand, Arthur dismisses John then, “Whatever...” 

John spurs Old Boy away, and you both watch as John grows smaller with distance as he heads down the road. 

You feel tense at that moment, being left with Arthur. The man seems to sense it, being unable to look at you as he glances down to his boots, his hands now holding his hips. 

“Wolf... I... I just wanted to...” 

His words die off in his mouth, and you can hear the aggravated sigh that leaves him then. 

“You’re angry at me, and rightfully so. I get that... What I said to you, what I did... I’m just angry right now, Wolf. And not at you.” 

Crossing your arms, you look down to the muddy ground below, “It sure as hell felt and seemed like you were.” 

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry.” 

“And?” 

You look up to see the way Arthur’s mouth slackens and his eyes lightly narrow on you, you can tell the man is a bit surprised at your response. 

“I’m havin’ a hard time believin’ if what you said to me was outta anger, or if it took that much for you to speak to me truthfully,” you mutter. 

“I was angry, not honest,” he murmurs then. 

“Sometimes people like to really show you how honest they can when they’re angry,” you argue. 

Sighing, the man runs a hand over his face, “You ain’t droppin’ this, are ya?” 

“It’s gonna take more than just a leather jacket or a shit conversation for me to,” you look ahead to where the train station is ahead of you, “It’s not like this all happened over nothin’.” 

Shaking his head, Arthur looks to you then, “I told you, I only took on Downes because—” 

“You think your reasonin’ makes a difference?” you tilt your head at the man, “You think that anythin’ would justify you beatin’ a sick man till he’s just about dead?” 

“Not to you, apparently.” 

Having heard enough, you begin to walk across the road to the train station, and Arthur follows after you. 

“What are you doin’?” 

“That man said we had a bounty on our head. Think it’ll be wise of us to clear it, with the Pinkertons already lookin’ for us.” 

Grumbling, Arthur fixes his hat on his head as you begin to go up the ramp leading to the doors of the train station. 

Moving past a few men and others waiting on the train, you open the doors to the station, approaching the counter to confront the teller sitting behind its painted glass. 

“How can I help you?” 

“We need to pay off a bounty. Should’ve been posted yesterday,” you tell him. 

Arthur curses lightly behind you as a few people look your way, and he ducks his head. 

“Shit Wolf, could you be a lil’ quieter ‘bout it?” 

From across the room, you see a woman get up, her eyes narrowing on Arthur as the teller nods at you both. 

“Ah. Think I got them right here,” the teller places two slips of paper onto the counter as you can sense Arthur tensing behind you, “It’ll be twenty for each.” 

You reach into your pocket, grabbing out your billfold as the woman approaches. 

“A-Arthur?” 

You place the bill onto the counter, the teller smiling at you both as he places it with your former bounties with a small thanks and congratulations, but you pay him no mind. 

Instead, your focus is tuned to the woman who looks at Arthur, her brown eyes warming up as a young man in strange clothes comes up from behind her. 

Rubbing at the back of his neck, Arthur hangs his head low. 

“Mary,” Arthur nods to the young man beside her, “Jamie.” 

Your eyes widen as Jamie’s eyes shift to you, and it’s then that you take in the jeweled outline of a turtle, of all things, on his shirt. Your face must say a lot more than your voice ever could as the woman — _Mary_ — looks to you. 

She has her hair swept into a tight bun in the back of her head, resting lower to her neck. The style allows you to see the pearl earrings she wears, dotting them like the beauty mark above her lips as they part in shock. Her blue dress ruffles as she drops her skirt from where she had lifted it to walk, her hands almost interlocking together as she takes you in as you do with her. 

“And this... this is?” 

“Oh, this is—” 

“Wolf,” you say for him, your voice cold. 

Arthur’s face falls a little as Mary studies you some, her nod slow and calculated. 

“You a friend of Arthur’s?” 

“We ride together,” you tell her bluntly, “It’s not like I’m his fiance.” 

Mary’s brows furrow as Arthur’s eyes widen a bit, and he glances between you both. 

“Oh, well, I—” Mary coughs awkwardly, fixing a strand of her black hair that had fallen loose from her bun, and she looks to Jamie, “I just wanted to say thank you, again, for savin’ Jamie this mornin’, Arthur.” 

Looking to the outlaw, Arthur runs a hand across the back of his neck awkwardly then, “It ain’t a big deal...” 

“Oh, it is! Daddy will be so happy to have Jamie back home. Although... I’m sure he won’t be happy to hear you were the one to help him.” 

“Please send him my worst regards,” Arthur huffs, and you have to take a deep breath at that moment to keep yourself from screaming. 

“Now, I won’t keep either of you. Our train is about to be here anyway,” Mary says then, looking back to Jamie before turning her gaze back to the outlaw, “We’re both headin’ back home after all this mess, and seein’ you... I just wanted to thank you again. I’m not sure what would’ve come of Jamie if you hadn’t rescued him... It meant a lot.” 

Softly, Arthur murmurs, “’Course...” 

You think that Mary is just going to disregard you, but she turns to you then, smiling warmly and bowing her head a little. 

“It was nice to meet you too, Wolf, even if only briefly.” 

Losing some of your bite towards her, you quietly mutter back, “And you too...” 

Pivoting, she grabs onto Jamie’s wrist, guiding him back to the corner in which they had been seated with their bags in as the conductor announces that the train has arrived. 

“Come on, Jamie! Daddy isn’t gonna be happy about you runnin’ off, but you know he’ll forget once he’s a bottle in...” 

Her words are lost amongst the bustle in the station, but you and Arthur both watch as she and Jamie grab onto their sets of luggage. Right before they head out of the door onto the boarding platform, she waves to you both before rushing outside. 

As she disappears, Arthur curses, and you let out a shaky breath as the teller whistles lowly. 

You both turn to him, venom in your gazes. The man simply lifts his hands in mock surrender, going to whistle a tune as he walks to the other side of his booth. 

“People nowadays,” Arthur mutters. 

You’ve heard enough, and you begin to walk away as the outlaw splutters after you. 

“Hey, what you walkin’ off for?” he asks, coming up to your side. 

“So that’s Mary,” you say, shaking your head. 

“You know about her?” Arthur asks, confused. 

“John told me a bit. Grimshaw has mentioned a little. ‘Bout everyone but me knows about her,” you huff as you exit the station right as the train whistles for its departure, “Glad I could finally meet her, for all the bluster she causes any time she’s mentioned.” 

You hear the massive machine behind you begin to roll forth on the tracks as Arthur scoffs, “Now it ain’t like that—” 

“What is it like then? ‘Cause the only person I haven’t heard anythin’ from is you, and I’m sure you know her better than anyone.” 

“We were engaged once, but it was a long, _long_ time ago,” Arthur murmurs as you approach your horses, “Nothin’ ever came of it.” 

You smile dejectedly as you come upon D’or’s side, “Seems like nothin’ is comin’ of it now, either.” 

“She wrote to me because Jamie got caught up in that weird turtle cult up near the east end of Cumberland Forest. God damn freaks, they was... She was just lookin’ out for her little brother.” 

“And she did so by askin’ you for help.” 

“Listen. I wasn’t thrilled when I read her letter and found out what she was askin’ of me,” he begins as you both saddle up, “But I wasn’t gonna let that boy keep gettin' brainwashed by a man who thinks a turtle will save us all.” 

“It’s whatever, Arthur. I don’t wanna talk about it anymore. Let’s just meet the others up at the saloon and call it at that...” 

Growing a little irritated, Arthur clicks his tongue, “It ain’t whatever for you. I can tell it ain’t.” 

“Doesn’t mean I wanna talk about it still,” you say with some heat. 

“Why does it matter so much to you, anyway?” Arthur starts as you ride up the road to Keane’s Saloon. 

“It’s one of many things botherin’ me right now.” 

“Oh, for that I’m sure.” 

You roll your eyes as you stop the horses outside of Keane’s Saloon. Outside, Dutch’s unmistakable white Arabian, The Count, stands, the stallion’s talk flicking at its flanks as you come beside him. The Count looks to you as you tether D’or loosely, your stomach churning as you hear Dutch’s boisterous laugh from inside. 

You go to head up the steps to its porch when you feel a hand place itself onto your wrist. 

Turning, you see Arthur, his face drawn up as you face him. 

“Wolf, I— . . .” he pauses, lips pressing tightly together before he blinks, shaking his head minutely, “I —” 

Before Arthur can say anything, the doors to the saloon open, and Strauss comes out of it, pushing his glasses up his nose as Dutch claps him on the back with a bot so subtle shove towards the stairs. 

“Go on and check with that man at the auction yard, Strauss,” Dutch says, his thick voice as commanding as it is unwavering, “We need to make sure our investment goes smoothly, and you’re the man to do it!” 

Swallowing, Strauss nods, holding his briefcase to his chest as he begins to descend the stairs, “Yes, Dutch...” 

Moving his attention to you as Strauss scurries past you both like the rat he is, Dutch’s face warms up as he takes in you both. 

“Didn’t ruin a moment, did I?” he jokes. 

Muted, Arthur dips his chin, “You didn’t ruin anythin’...” 

“Well, in that case, come on in! First drink is on me!” Dutch laughs, holding open the doors for you both. 

You glance between both men as Arthur sighs, taking the first step up as you follow along behind. As he comes upon the door, Dutch puts an arm around Arthur’s shoulders, pulling him further into the bar as you follow along behind. 

“So, Arthur, how did the job with John go?” 

“It went... Bastard demanded we give kickback on them sheep. Lost eighteen percent on ‘em.” 

Humming lowly, Dutch’s smile loses way to a slight scowl as you three approach the bar, “Sounds like you dealt with quite the businessman.” 

“You gotta thank John for that one... Least it wasn’t his original proposal of twenty-five percent.” 

Dutch shakes his head as he holds up three fingers to the bartender, “Seems like everyone’s out to fill their pockets nowadays.” 

“World’s changin’, and our business is dyin’ for it,” Arthur says as the bartender sets three shots of whiskey in front of you both as the saloon doors open behind you three, “Now’s a better time than any when there’s still money to be made.” 

“Suppose you’re right,” Dutch murmurs as he grabs his glass, “How about a drink to us gettin’ the chance, my boy?” 

Both he and Arthur take their shots together as you fiddle with yours. At your side, you sense someone come up to the bar. 

“Two beers please,” John says as he leans over the bar, looking down at your shot that you spin between your fingers, “You okay?” 

“I’m here,” you murmur, but you lift the glass nevertheless, taking the shot and swallowing it before it can truly burn your throat. 

“Ain’t the same thing.” 

You say nothing as the bartender sets two beers onto the counter. 

“Come on. We’ll talk outside.” 

You leave Dutch and Arthur behind, taking your beer and stepping towards the doors. You see Arthur take note of you leaving, but Dutch soon gathers his attention back, and you step out of the doors behind John as though the man had never diverted it in the first place. 

John takes you to the railing then, and you both lean over it, looking out to the road as the rain keeps falling, drowsy and cold as you shiver lightly, despite the coat you wear. 

“What’s eatin’ at ya?” 

“Lotta things,” you say, and you bring the bottle of beer up to your lips, taking a sip from it. 

“So I’ve noticed,” he mumbles, “And I’ve noticed a lotta of ‘em gotta do with Arthur.” 

You snort softly, taking another sip of your beer. 

“I’m sure you two talked after I rode on,” he continues. 

“That we did.” 

“Did it help anythin’?” 

“Might’ve. If we hadn’t run into Mary.” 

John winces at that, nodding lightly in understanding, “It could’ve gone better then...” 

“That it could’ve.” 

You swallow another bitter mouthful of your beer as John leans his over the railing, shaking his head as the townsfolk pass you both stand beside each other in silence. 

You think of Mary then, of how she seemed to light up upon seeing Arthur, only for that light to dim as she noticed you. 

Your head hangs lightly, hating the way your gut twists awfully as though it were attempting to knot itself as you grip onto the neck of your beer. 

Sniffing, John rubs at the tip of his nose as he voices his curiosity, “Where did you see her?” 

“Train station,” you start, voice hollow and muted, “I went to pay our bounties for the Downes ordeal, and she was there waitin’ on the train that left not to long ago...” 

John huffs, face scrunching up then, “Wonder why she was in town...” 

“It was her brother, Jamie, apparently. Got himself into a mess with some cult I've never heard of before, and Mary asked for Arthur’s help to get him out... Arthur apparently got him this mornin’, I'm guessin' he was on the way back from gettin' Jamie when he decided to join us with the rustlin' job.” 

“Ah. See why you’re stiff as you are now.” 

“I ain’t stiff about it.” 

To that, John glances at you, taking a sip of his beer while he raises a brow. 

"John," you huff.

"I get it. Mary makes Arthur an idiot even now. It isn't wrong to get upset over."

Frowning, you correct the man at your side, "I'm more upset that I wanna hate her when I ain't got any reason to. Least, not personally, anyway... But honestly, it doesn't matter... It's not like she stuck around long enough anyway."

"She seems to have stuck with you though."

Shaking your head, your cheeks flush, and you down a bit of your own drink as though it were to celebrate the birth of your mortification. 

“Listen,” he begins, voice loud enough for only you to hear, “I ain’t judgin’ you or teasin’ you any... I know you care about Arthur, and Mary, well... she’s a beast in her own right. But I get how you are when it comes to this, and it ain’t from a place of mockin’.” 

“I didn’t think you were...” 

“Then where do you think I’m comin’ from?” 

Shrugging, you bring your beer bottle close to your lips, “I dunno, you tell me.” 

The man leans back a little from the railing, “I think it’s a place we’ve all been one time or another. Whether we’re the one desirin’ reciprocation or bein’ denyin’ of it.” 

“Reciprocation?” you echo, “To what, exactly?” 

Tilting his head lightly, he answers with, “Your feelin’s.” 

“You say that like I love him...” you mutter. 

“Well? Do you?” 

Your head shoots up, and you look at John then, your mouth parting. The man truly doesn’t seem anything but sincere, his face an almost impassive form of curiosity— one that cares not for being sated by one specific answer, but just to receive any to its questioning. 

“I—” you start, your skin as red as you are stumped, and you look away from John, “I’m not sure what I feel...” 

“But you care about him...” 

“’Course I do...” 

John nods, looking back to the road ahead of you, “Then what else do you need to feel?” 

“It ain’t that simple...” 

“Nothin’ usually is. But I told you, you have to truly care about somethin’ to get this mad over it,” he peeks at you from the corner of his eyes as he raises the rim of his bottle to his lips, “Think that’s simple enough to figure out.” 

You set your gaze upon the wooden porch of the saloon, your stare harsh and heavy as John pats you on the shoulder. 

“He may be an asshole at times, and a bastard in his own right, but...” John pauses, his hand falling away from you then, “I doubt you gotta worry about bein’ denied by him.” 

John steps aside then, heading back into the bar as you nurse your pities with the beer he had bought you as you are left outside on your own. 

You think about all that John has said, working it through your mind as you hear several people approach the saloon, their footfalls squelching in the mud as you take a deep breath. 

Leaning your head up to take a sip of your beer, you find yourself witness to the scene unfolding before you. 

Slipping from your shock-slackened fingers, your beer bottle falls to the ground, shattering right as you hear the gun pressed against Strauss’ temple damningly click. 

The man who holds both the weapon and Strauss hostage is grinning, looking to you like a mountain lion with a farm chicken in its maw. 

He’s an old man, one you have never seen in this area before, with his partially bald head that is framed with his silver locks in a ring about the sides. It all flows into his beard, well-kept and groomed but as bulbous as his nose and face itself in some places as his skin folds along the lines of its wrinkles as he grins. 

At his chest, Strauss struggles some, sweating nervously and appearing as pale as the snow you left behind in Colter as he shivers. 

“Van Der Linde!” he calls, his light baritone ringing through the air as you quickly straighten, sobering both out of your drinks and misery as you find guns aimed at you from the men that back him on the road, “Get out here! Get out here now!” 

Townsfolk gather and watch as you hear Dutch curse from inside. There’s a muffled down of a chair moving, and you can hear the man and Arthur talking amongst each other as you swallow thickly, the man’s eyes trained on you as he presses the barrel of his Colt harder against Strauss’ skull. 

You watch as he wraps his arm tighter around Strauss’ throat, his fine suit crinkling with the added pressure as he moves his attention to the doorway of the saloon. 

“You don’t know me, but you keep robbin’ me!” he shouts, “Might I do you another generosity of tellin’ you my name! I’m sure you’ve heard of it, considering how you have taken so much of what is mine!” 

“I’m afraid I haven’t,” you hear Dutch reply back from inside the saloon. 

His response only makes the man grow angrier, “I owned the trains you robbed, the bonds you stole, the land you tried to keep me from! I’ve come to get even for what you’ve taken!” 

Dutch exits the building then, smiling and holding his hands up in surrender, his tone as cheeky as his grin, “Ah! Leviticus Cornwall, is it?” 

“None other!” he bellows, “Say, Van Der Linde, why shouldn’t I shoot you depraved pieces of trash here in the streets like the diseased dogs you are?” 

“Because this is a case of mistaken identity!” Dutch says, working some charm into his voice despite the slight glint of fear you see in his eyes, “Do you wish to admonish a man for the sins of another? For who is someone to say they are such a messiah?” 

“You’re a liar as much as you’re a crook, Van Der Linde! I heard from the Pinkertons about where you all were, and I came to get even myself! You’re a wanted man for a god damn reason!” Cornwall shouts, “And I am a man who is not to be messed with by the likes of you!” 

Chuckling, Dutch’s voice lowers, and his eyes narrow. 

“Or you’ll do _what,_ exactly?” 

“I’ll kill your friend here! And the whore who killed one of my men in cold blood!” 

Your heart stutters as it tries to beat in its panic, and your palms begin to sweat as Dutch dips his head. 

“Don’t think that’s gonna happen, Leviticus.” 

Cornwall opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, a shot rings out. 

The gun in Cornwall’s hand makes a sharp noise, and the man’s hand yanks away from where it once was, the old man cursing and crying out as the Colt lands on the ground, a bullet lodged into its chamber. 

Before anyone can truly process what is going on, Strauss kicks against Cornwall, forcing his way out of the man’s slackened grasp in an attempt to vie for his freedom. 

But, one of Cornwall’s men is prepared, firing his repeater and causing Strauss to cry out as a bullet rips into his thigh. 

And from there, it is nothing but gunfire. 

“You bastards! You utter _filth!”_ Cornwall shouts amongst the mayhem as he scrambles towards his horse, “You will pay for all of the pain you’ve caused!” 

“As long as you’re footin’ the bill!” Dutch shouts back. 

You lower yourself against the railing of the porch as John and Arthur burst out from the inside of the saloon, and you ready your repeater as John takes the end with Dutch, and Arthur takes cover by you. 

“You alright?” he asks breathlessly. 

“Yeah,” you say as you pull your carbine to your front, “I didn’t get shot like Strauss.” 

Despite the tension, Arthur chuckles and shakes his head before he’s hopping back into the firefight. 

You join with him, jumping above to aim at the men left in the street with your carbine. You drop one man while Arthur tags the other, your bullets clipping through them as you clear the street. 

“John, get Strauss!” Dutch demands as he reloads his Colt. 

“On it!” 

The old man groans from where he lies on the street, his gray slacks turned almost black with blood as Dutch points to a horseless wagon across the street. 

“Get him in there! We’ll move it and use it for cover!” 

More men come from down from the other main end of the road, and you curse as you quickly drop two in quick succession. 

“There’s more comin’!” you yell. 

“Cover me while I get him over there!” John shouts back. 

Together, you and Arthur hold back the initial onslaught of men, both running on foot or on horseback. 

The street soon becomes a littered mess of bodies and panicked horses stomping about as John shoves Strauss into the back of the wagon. The man cries out, holding his leg and causing John to glare at him. 

John's eyes roll as he ducks behind the wagon as more men come upon the road, their bullets landing into the wood of the wagon and the mud where he once stood. 

“Oh, shut up, would ya!” 

“Sounds just like you when you were healin’, Marston!” 

“You can shut up too!” 

“You can talk! We all heard you cry over from a nick from a wolf for a few months!” 

John makes an aggravated noise, glaring daggers at the man at your side. 

Dutch looks between the two men, “Can’t you boys see we have a bigger problem on our hands?” 

Shooting your carbine, you hit a man in the throat as he rounded the corner at the gunsmith. Looking down the end of the road, you try and see where you can make your escape, but it seems as though the man had abandoned all of their wagons there, blocking it off for good measure. 

“Arthur, you go up there, try and clear the road some. John and I are gonna push the wagon that way, since the bastards blocked us on the other side,” as Arthur nods, pushing past you to jump over the railing and run to the crook in the street, Dutch glances to you, “Broce, can you provide some coverage as we push forward?” 

“Sure.” 

“Unhitch the horses before we start, we’ll whistle for when things are cleared up enough for us to run.” 

You nod, rushing down the steps. 

You quickly shirk the reins of The Count off of the post, the Arabian shifting on his feet uneasily as you see him eyeball the scene. Beside, D’or is a little rustled, but far calmer, and she snickers lightly to you out of concern as you slip her reins off of the hitch. 

“M’fine, girl,” you tell her softly. 

Sliding over to Old Boy and Arthur’s Walker at the end, you free both of the horses at once, falling back to raise your carbine back up as you hear Arthur firing into the main street of Valentine. 

“This is the last damn thing we needed!” Dutch roars as you look about, he and John at the back of the wagon as Strauss nurses his injured leg. 

The wagon moves slowly, the wheels creaking and working through the mud as John and Dutch force it forward. 

Shouting out to the other man, Dutch asks, “Arthur, how’s it lookin’ over there!?” 

“There are some more men over there, comin’ up the road! Probably about ten or more!” 

“Shit! Broce, if it’s clear, add some firepower to him!” 

You run forward, boots losing some traction in the mud. Coming upon the curve in the road, you slide, hitting a stack of hay bales and dropping below them just as a few bullets pierce into them. Arthur is beside you, face red as he reloads his gun. 

“Push, John!” 

“I am!” 

Arthur glances to you, popping the chamber of his Colt back into place and spinning it until it is ready, “Think we got this?” 

“We either do or we don’t,” you say gravely, waiting until the men expend more of their bullets into the bales you take cover behind, “Only one way to find out...” 

“You ready?” 

As their impending fire lightens some, most of the men shouting they are reloading, you nod. 

The two of you raise yourselves, with Arthur working his Colt and you with your carbine. The outlaw by your side takes the left of the street, firing and hitting one man as soon as he props up. As for you, you shoot at a man who is trying to fire from the top of the general store, your shot clipping through his shoulder. 

“We’re coming up!” 

Behind you, the wagon makes its appearance, and the front of it offers Dutch, John, and Strauss cover as the bullets begin to hit the wood of its front as they advance forward. 

“Get these men _dealt with!”_ Dutch shouts. 

“I can’t do this, Dutch!” you hear Strauss’ accented voice from the back of the wagon as he hisses. 

“Get a grip! This is what bein’ on the front lines is like!” the man shouts as the rain of bullets picks up once more as they begin to round the corner, you drop behind the bales again, going to reload, “Hell of a lot different from money launderin’ ain’t it!?” 

“They’re advancin’, Wolf, come on!” Arthur shouts at you. 

Frowning, you glance at the man as you shove ammo into your gun, “I’m goin’ as fast I can!” 

“You gotta be faster, otherwise, they beat ya to it!” Arthur sneaks a shot from the side, clipping a man who was running up the porches of the businesses towards you, “The sooner you’re able to respond with lead in kind, the better!” 

“I fuckin’ got it, okay!?” you snap, both out of anger and with putting your carbine back in order. 

Taking a deep breath, it’s as though time slows, and you raise yourself from above the bales as the men go to reload once more. 

You quickly aim and fire, moving from the closest man to the furthest, with nothing but the sound of your heart in your ears and your deep breaths being audible to you as you fire into all of them. 

In quick succession, you shoot six men on your side of the street, all of them dropping right after the other as things seem to fall back into pace. 

“Shit, woman!” Arthur’s eyes are wide, “When in the hell did you learn that!?” 

“Just now!” you yell back, and you go to reload once more. 

“Arthur, Broce— fall behind the wagon!” 

You pop the last bullet into your carbine’s chamber before moving with Arthur, gunfire still cracking through the air as the rain falls steadily overhead. You come at the back of the wagon, eyeing Strauss as the man holds onto his wrecked thigh, tears rolling down his stark face. 

“Say, Broce, I don’t even think you whined when you got a knife in your leg,” Dutch says then, his teasing only making Strauss’ mood fester further as you huff. 

“How’s it lookin’ for us?” John asks, the front of the wagon taking bullets still, but nowhere near as many. 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur reloads his Colt as he replies, “Reckon there’s just about five more, and that’ll do us.” 

“Make quick work of ‘em, would ya?” 

Rumbling, Arthur’s low baritone deeps even further, “With pleasure...” 

Arthur leans out from the side of the wagon, firing into the men on his end just as quickly as you had with your carbine, the end of his Colt emitting clouds of gun smoke into the air with the acrid scent of burnt powder for its trouble. It mixes awfully with the scent of rust and salt from the wound on Strauss’ thigh as you push past the first half of the street. 

“Any more that you see?” 

“There’s one hidin’ in the stables. Think you can get him, Wolf?” 

Breathing out, you ready your carbine, “Yeah...” 

You step back, working your legs to where you can see over the lip of the wagon. 

At the stables, you see the door held barely ajar, and a man fires from it, obviously panicking. He’s the last one, firing hopelessly as he knows what is to come. 

Swallowing thickly, you make a choice, and so you try to aim properly as the man emerges entirely from the stables, brandishing his Colt into the air. 

“I’ll kill all of ya!” he declares, but his near petrification is evident, especially as Arthur aims his Colt at him. 

But you take the shot. 

The gun is knocked out of the man’s hand, falling into the dirt much like Cornwall’s. He seems to take an abated breath, his inhales shallow and sharp as he stumbles back, eyeing his gun from where it now lies in the mud. 

“Run, you god damn fool!” you shout at him. 

“Wolf, what’re you doin’?” Arthur asks. 

The man sees his chance, and without much more prompting, he spins on his foot, sprinting down the street and running off as Dutch and John cease pushing the wagon now that they are at the end of the road. 

“He didn’t need to die,” you state easily, raising your fingers up to your mouth to whistle for D’or. 

Arthur’s scowl is back, and you hear your mare answer your call from down the street as the other men whistle for their horses as well. 

“He was tryin’ to shoot us—” 

“I ain’t arguin’ with you about it right now. We gotta get outta here.” 

Dutch sighs as The Count trots up the road, the sight of his white stallion causing a small sigh of relief to come out of Dutch as the townsfolk begin to slip out of their shops and buildings, eyeing the chaos and carnage that was now their town. 

“She’s right. We gotta leave. We can’t stay here after this,” he starts, reaching the Arabian as it finishes approaching to saddle up on it, “When we get back to camp, we’re movin’.” 

Arthur’s face falls as his Walker stops beside him, “Thought you was wantin’ to wait—” 

“We can’t. Not with the Pinkertons this close and Cornwall droppin’ on our doorstep like this because of them. You heard him! He found out where we were when the Pinkertons did!” 

Arthur’s anger returns full force, the hatred in his voice apparent as he grits out, “That man you lent to Strauss, Thomas Downes— he talked. Told the Pinkertons we was here.” 

Dutch’s expression is dark as he tilts his head at Arthur while he goes to pick up Strauss to put onto the back of his horse. 

“That so?” 

“Man told him himself.” 

From down the street, you hear a woman scream, “You bunch of degenerates!” 

Scowling, Dutch’s Arabian shifts as a few townsfolk begin to uproar about the body and bullet-ridden state of Valentine, their personal rage evoking a kind of public wrath you had yet to see as the sheriff and his man begin to try and circle around you. 

“Think we overstayed our welcome. Come on!” 

“Stop right there!” 

You practically leap onto D’or’s saddle, spurring the mare forth as the lawmen fire after you. Ducking, a few bullets whiz past, and you curse as you ride at the back with Arthur, both John and Dutch pulling ahead of you both as your horses gallop at full speed away from the mess and massacre that was now Valentine. 

“We just turn everythin’ into a god damn mess, don’t we!?” John shouts to you all as you ride past the auction yard. 

“This was on Cornwall!” Dutch clarifies then, “Those are _his_ men back in those streets, and they were workin’ of his orders! The audacity that man has to try and settle a score like that!” 

Shaking your head, you speak up then, “Well, you gotta think about how much problems we’ve caused him! Just for the plantation business alone, I’m sure Arthur and I cost him yet another fortune!” 

“Man like that doesn’t need another! He’s a god damn tyrant who believes money can only be made by takin’ advantage of anyone— for those who work for him, to the people whose land he’s tryin’ to buy for his fields! That’s the direction this country is going forward with, the prosperous few, and peasants a many!” 

Beside you, Arthur groans, “Now isn’t one of the times for your philosophy lessons, Dutch!” 

“Oh, but that it is!” you all collectively make a small noise of protest as Dutch continues, “I’ve been doin’ some readin’, and this man, Evelyn Miller, he’s been makin’ a lotta sense about all of this! And I can’t help but think he is truly givin’ what we are doin’ here a voice!” 

“Don’t think there’s much to voice here, Dutch!” John says. 

Dutch’s disbelief is evident as he sweeps the air with his arm, “You need to see the bigger picture here, John! We are men, and women, looking for a prosperous life that is both simple, and what our founding fathers intended! We are true Americans, the animals lookin’ to survive in a world that just wants to kill us!” 

“We sure are killin’ them back just fine,” you mutter. 

“I’ll explain it more to you all at a better time. And I promise you will see the truth in Mr. Miller’s words, and with what we intend to do!” 

Seeming unconvinced already, Arthur pipes up then, “Speakin’ of, what do we intend to do now that we’re jumpin’ ship here? Got any idea as to where we’re goin’?” 

“I’ll admit, I wasn’t exactly bettin’ my money on leavin’ so early, but... I heard about a place, from Micah.” 

You hold back your groan, but it is evident that no one is an apparent fan with the looks they send to Dutch. 

“It’s up near Dewberry Creek,” Dutch continues, unaware of this distaste that plagues the rest of you then, “You should take Ms. Broce and Charles up there, make sure it’s clear and proper for us.” 

“If you say so...” 

As you come upon the camp, you all slow, working through the trees as you pass by Bill on his watch. 

“Everyone!” Dutch shouts into camp, causing everyone to lift their heads as he slows his Arabian by the hitching posts then, “Gather ‘round! We need to make this quick!” 

Rushing, the rest of the camp gathers in front of Dutch, and your eyes shift to Jack, clinging onto his mother as Dutch begins his impromptu speech. 

“It seems as though we are going to have to move earlier than intended,” the line causes a few murmurs and gasps to break out amongst the other members, “There as some nasty business down in Valentine, some that we can’t risk stayin’ for any longer. So, we are to gather our things as quickly as possible. We need to get movin’ by nightfall.” 

Grimshaw looks grim at that moment, and almost as hot as a kettle on a campfire as Dutch looks to her. 

“Grimshaw, it’s just like back in Blackwater. Do what you can where you can.” 

“Alright girls! Let’s get to work!” she yanks the girls out of the crowd, and together, they span off across the camp. 

Nodding to Pearson, Dutch regards the man then, “Make sure all of our food is together. And only keep out the bare minimum until we head out.” 

“Already done. There’s a nice bison stew that’s ready now for anyone who wants some as well, courteously given by Ms. Broce.” 

“Good. Everyone, eat while you can and pack up! I want us gone by nightfall!” 

An array of calls follow Dutch then, and you watch as Hosea sticks behind as everyone departs, the man’s face a harsh expression as Dutch hops off of his Arabian before him. 

“What happened in Valentine?” the man asks, his voice stern as he is cold as he crosses his arms. 

“Cornwall did. Bastard caught us out in the town and opened fire,” Dutch explains. 

Cursing, the old man pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head in disappointment, “We’re in for it now.” 

“He knew where we were because of the Pinkertons, and they knew of us because one of Strauss’ debtors talked.” 

“And where do you propose we go now, Dutch?” 

“There’s a spot Micah mentioned, out near Dewberry Creek,” Hosea’s eyes narrow at that, “I was sendin’ Charles with Ms. Broce and Arthur to check it out.” 

Quietly, the man’s voice is straight fire as he hisses, “We’re headin’ further east? When are we gonna stop? When we hit Paris?” 

“It’s a thought,” Dutch jokes humorously, “We could join a commune.” 

Looking dangerously irked, Hosea shoots Dutch a heated look, “Dutch—” 

“We’re only headin’ that way so we can find a sensible place to camp. That way we can shake the folks after us and lay low for a while.” 

Mockingly, Hosea shoots off with, “And this is what you call layin’ low?” 

“We ain’t gotta choice, Hosea! The Pinkertons are comin’ down from that way after us. They have yet to cool since Blackwater. Don’t find that’s a fittin’ climate to wander back into, especially with the mess that just became Valentine.” 

“You’ve turned into a bunch of killers, I mean it,” Hosea barks, glancing at all of you then, “We ain’t even got a delusion to hide behind about it!” 

“We are just tryin’ to survive, Hosea—” Dutch approaches the older man then, setting a hand on his shoulder, “—we don’t have a choice. This’ll all end soon.” 

Yanking himself back, Hosea points an accusing finger at Dutch, his fury evident in his shout as he begins to walk away, “Damn right it will!” 

“Constipated as usual...” Dutch mutters under his breath as Charles comes forward. 

“You said you wanted me to ride out, Dutch?” 

Sighing, the man nods, and he takes off his bowler hat to run a hand through his raven hair then, “Yes. With Arthur and Ms. Broce. There’s a possible spot for our next camp I want you to scout.” 

“Where?” 

“Dewberry Creek.” 

Crossing his arms and nodding, Charles murmurs, “I know of it...” 

“Seem alright to you?” 

“We’d have to check it out. Sometimes it can be... occupied.” 

Shaking his head, Dutch throws his hands into the air as he breaks off from you then to head to his tent, “’Course.” 

“We’ll see what we can do, Dutch,” Charles offers in reassurance as Kieran brings over Taima for the man. 

Sending a small thanks to the former O’Driscoll, Charles saddles up on his Appaloosa before looking between you and Arthur. 

“You ready to go?” 

“Sure,” Arthur says as you offer Charles a nod. 

The three of you turn your horses, aiming for the main road. Instead of turning left towards Valentine, you aim right, heading down the road as you did earlier to head to the plains. Charles somewhat rides in point, taking upon the middle as you and Arthur ride tightly at his sides. 

As you come upon the junction in the road, instead of going straight as you would to get to Twin Stack Pass, you take the right once more, heading off in the direction of the lower end of The Heartlands. 

“I overheard what Dutch said about Cornwall in Valentine,” Charles speaks up then, and you and Arthur both look at him, “I’m guessing it was as nasty as it sounds.” 

“And then some. We probably killed thirty men just to get down the street,” Arthur huffs. 

Charles whistles, “Guess that explains the move.” 

“The townsfolk weren’t happy, no... Pretty sure the sheriff wants to lynch us after that.” 

“It’s not like we didn’t earn it,” you say. 

Arthur laughs, the sound far from humorous then, “Not this again.” 

“Arthur...” Charles warns. 

“What? I’m not the one makin’ snide comments over here about this—” 

“I don’t want to hear any fighting. And while that goes both ways, we both know who’s gonna be the sour one of you two.” 

Making a noise of objection, Arthur defends himself, “I wasn’t even the one who made a comment!” 

“Arthur.” 

Sighing, the man relents, holding back his anger with a gritty, “Whatever...” 

Charles glances to you then, asking, “How are you holdin’ up?” 

“I’m alright...” 

Charles hums, looking forward as you take a curve in the road, heading in the opposite direction of Flatneck Station, “You didn’t come back last night,” he comments. 

“Had my reasons to keep my distance.” 

You feel Arthur’s eyes on you then, but you refuse to meet them. 

“Well, the sooner we get this new camp sorted out, the better I think it’ll be for all of us.” 

“Amen,” you mutter. 

You three ride on in silence after that, following the road and heading in the direction of Scarlett Meadows as Charles leads you both forward. 

The land changes, having since molded from the brush-filled plains of The Heartlands into something more. The orange, rusty soil from before begins to appear here and there, and you feel the air grow hotter and more humid as you ride further on. The rain soon relents, and you are left with the sky open and clear as you ride further on, the land getting drier as D’or gallops along. 

As the sun begins to descend in the sky, you come upon a sign stating a welcome to the state of Lemoyne, and you frown as Charles seems to grip his reins tighter at its appearance. 

“You okay, Charles?” you ask. 

“M’fine. This is just Lemonye... Ain’t a kind country to folk like me...” 

You frown at the implications of that as you all break off the main road. 

“You know, I’ve known Dutch for a few months, but from the way he talks, you’d never figure he’d want to run down to the south.” 

“Why’s that?” you ask. 

“Dutch’s father died while fightin’ for the union,” Arthur explains, his words tact and almost forced, “He ain’t a fan of this country anymore they are a fan of people different from ‘em.” 

Looking at the ground ahead, you frown as you think those words over, “Then I’m sure this’ll be fun.” 

“There really ain’t no lyin’ low for us now. There’s too many of us. And Dutch? He ain’t one to go hide off in a cave like a hermit somewhere. Goes against everythin’ he stands for. ‘Sides, that would just be admittin’ that we’re nothin’ more than low-down criminals on the run...” 

“Which... we are,” Charles states. 

“You ain’t gotta tell me that to know...” the outlaw mutters. 

“Then what do you figure is gonna happen? Where does it end?” 

Frowning, Arthur asks, “Where does what end?” 

“The moving, the running...” 

“Now Dutch don’t see it as runnin’.” 

Humming, Charles says, “He doesn’t see us as criminals neither.” 

“Say what you want, but... used to be that if you put enough time and distance between you and your problems, eventually they just went away... But now... Ain’t no one willin’ to forget or forgive, it seems. And with these Pinkertons... Well, I reckon those days are over.” 

“Do you think the Pinkertons are gonna let up?” 

Taking a deep breath, Arthur murmurs, “Not sure... They were pretty serious when they confronted us down at Dakota River... To be honest, we shoulda left then.” 

As you come upon a hill, you crest over it, taking in the sight of what looks like a dried up river bed down below. 

“Shit, hang on, think this is it.” 

“Had water, last time I saw it,” Charles comments under his breath, “Looks open at least.” 

As you come down the steep slope of the hill’s side, you frown at the sight of the dried-up creek bed. 

“Don’t think this’ll be dry when it rains,” Arthur mutters. 

As you cross the road below to investigate, a few vultures fly off into the air, run off by your arrival. 

“Think they was pickin’ on somethin’.” 

“Let’s check it out,” Charles says, steering Taima across the uneven sand that is the creek bed to where the vultures had taken off from, “I gotta bad feeling about this place...” 

D’or huffs as you guide her along, and you frown as you see some corpse lying in the middle of the creek bed. 

“What is it?” 

Arthur gets to it first, and he frowns at the flies that swarm about whatever it is. Studying it for a second longer, his face darkens, and he looks to you both. 

“It was someone.” 

You grip onto D’or’s reins a bit tighter as Arthur curses, spurring his Walker away from the remains of whatever poor bastard met their end here. 

“How old is it?” 

“I’d say a day or two. Had a gunshot in the head,” Arthur says, voice somewhat hollow, “Somethin’ bad happened here. There are tracks from a wagon too. And see where the dirt is all crumpled up? Whoever they were, they must’ve been campin’ here before we even got the idea to.” 

Charles’ eyes narrow, and he looks to the ground further on from the corpse. 

“There’s tracks here. From a person.” 

“You wanna follow ‘em?” 

“We might as well... Could just be nothin’. But I’d rather make sure it is.” 

Charles rides point again, and you follow up behind Arthur at the back. The man stares at the ground, following what you find are boot prints leading up to the opposite bank of the creek. 

He follows it until it reaches what looks like another arm of the creek, dried up and crusted over. There, you find what looks like a small camp, torn apart and battered up. There’s one more wagon, both in disarray and out of commission with the way its first wheel is snapped almost clean off. It is tilted downward, its front axle buried into the ground as the three of you take in its state. 

Lowering yourself from D’or, you hear and see nothing more than the canvas of the tents flapping in the wind. 

“It was more than just him...” 

“Search around. We may find somethin’,” Arthur instructs. 

The crunch of your footfalls reaches your ears as you step to the wagon, with Charles and Arthur pushing past to look into the three tents that lie out further. 

You go to the back of the wagon, looking inside and finding suitcases and boxes torn open, ripped apart and pillaged through. Clothes lie about the bottom of the wagon, alongside other items. 

There, amidst the clothing, you find the dress to what looks like a young girl, accompanied by a stuffed doll, her face encrusted with what looks like dried blood. 

“There... There was a family here.” 

“German, I think,” Charles says, bringing up a book and turning through its pages, “This book is written in it.” 

Swallowing thickly, you pull back, leaning out from the back of the wagon as you hear something pop from underneath it. 

You still, listening closely and refraining from making any movement as you hear it again. 

Your heartbeat picks up some, and you move slowly to the side of the wagon, leaning down to look underneath right as you are grabbed. 

You can’t help the shout that escapes you, and both Arthur and Charles turn, guns at the ready as you come face to face with who grabbed you. 

It is a woman, fair-skinned and blonde, weeping openly as she grabs onto you. Her bun is almost entirely a mess, strands of it falling out every which way as she shakes her head. 

She is speaking a language you cannot understand, her pleas lost to you as Charles and Arthur lower their weapons some. 

Breaking down, the woman sobs, gripping onto your shirt and burying her face there as she cries in anguish. 

You circle your arms around her, letting her sob into your shirt as you hear something shuffle out from under the wagon. 

“Shit... she’s got kids." 

A young boy and an even younger girl emerge, dusted in dirt and faces red and puffy from crying. They come up, speaking in the same language the woman does as they grip onto her torn and muddied dress. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” you tell her softly, “We aren’t gonna hurt ya...” 

Both Charles and Arthur holster their guns, coming forward slowly as the woman pulls away from you to look at them. She begins speaking again, her words lost to you all as she continues, pulling her children close as she points. Off in that direction, you see more tracks, cutting through the earth as her fresh tears cut through the grime on her cheeks. 

It’s then that you see the bruise on her cheekbone, the skin is as swollen as it is dark, and you feel some amount of anger for her build up within you as you realize she had been struck harshly there. 

“What is she even sayin’?” Arthur puts his hands on his hips, looking to you and Charles. 

“Dunno. I don’t speak German.” 

Sighing, Arthur goes to walk back to his horses, “Well, whatever is goin’ on with her, we ain’t got the time for it. The sun’s gonna set soon.” 

“ _Arthur,_ ” your voice is downright offended as even Charles shoots Arthur an affronted look. 

“We got our own problems right now, Wolf. You think helpin’ this woman is gonna help us any? She don’t even speak our language!” 

“This is beneath you, Arthur,” Charles growls, “You ain’t as tough and dense as all that.” 

Arthur lets out a small noise of irritation, throwing his hands into the air as Charles ignores him. 

“We're gonna figure out what happened, okay?” he tells her. 

The daughter comes forth then, her pigtails messy as her English, “They... took papa,” her accent cuts through, making her pronunciation awkward, but not to the point of being unintelligible, “Last night. Killed uncle.” 

“Where did they take him?” you ask. 

“Over. Ridge there,” she points in the same direction her mother had, “Said _Clemens Point._ ” 

Nodding, Charles looks to the young girl then, “We’ll see what we can do to help you, okay?” 

Despite the barrier, the young girl nods, explaining your words and intent to her mother. 

The woman’s tears lighten some as she looks to you both. 

“Danke dir," she says, breathless and hoarse, “Danke euch beiden!” 

Charles nods to her, and he walks away, heading towards his horse. 

Looking to you, he asks, “You comin’?” 

“’Course,” you say, walking past Arthur then. 

The man scoffs, finishing going to his Walker to saddle up as you and Charles go ahead and ride forth. 

“They got onto their horse here. And it looks like the wagon was brought up this way too.” 

“I have no idea why we’re doin’ this—” 

“What’s wrong with you?” 

Arthur looks at Charles then, grimacing, “What do you mean?” 

“You were just gonna send those women and children on their way?” 

Huffing, Arthur explains himself, “We’re wanted men, Charles. We got Pinkertons breathin’ down our necks right now. We can’t be stoppin’ to help every person we come across! Let alone right now when we gotta get a move on!” 

“This ain’t like you.” 

“Yeah well, maybe you don’t know me like you think you do...” 

“With how you’re actin’, I might not.” 

Charles’ eyes are locked onto the ground as he spurs Taima, working her into a steady gallop as you and Arthur tail along. You soon come upon the main road, and the trail is still fresh and relatively unmarred as Charles follows it, the earth below soon turning that burnt orange color. 

“What do you think happened?” Charles asks you then. 

Despite his question being directed to you, it’s Arthur who answers, “I think that he got ambushed by someone. Probably Lemoyne Raiders.” 

“Lemoyne what now?” you ask. 

Sighing, Charles explains, “The Lemoyne Raiders. They’re a faction of people here in the state who think they can split off as the state did during the civil war. They’re a nasty group of people who think laws don’t apply to them because they don’t agree with them.” 

“Sounds almost like us...” you murmur. 

“We have some morals. Those raiders don’t,” Arthur tells you a little bitterly, “They would kill someone like Charles before they ever rode with him.” 

“And yet we got Micah.” 

“Oh, now Micah would fit right in wit’ ‘em, I reckon. But he doesn’t speak for all of us.” 

Nodding, you admit, “You got me there.” 

“The tracks split off here,” Charles announces to you both, and he breaks off the road once more, heading off of the main road once more. 

You see a thicket of tall cypress trees blocking a small bit of land that juts out into Flat Iron Lake. The waters of it shift as you ride forward, turning orange as the sun begins to sink lower into the sky. 

“We gotta hurry back before this sun sets,” Arthur mutters as you slow your horses at the tree line. 

You see the wagon at the end of the trail parked under a willow tree, its overhanging leaves rustling above it as a few men mill about the space, circling like the vultures from before around a man they kick and beat against the ground. 

“Told you. They ain’t got a sense of right or wrong in ‘em,” Arthur growls, readying his gun. 

You don’t hesitate either, grabbing your carbine as Charles grabs his sawed-off from its holster. 

Raising your gun, you aim at one of the men as he brandishes his revolver, laughing and going to shoot the man in the head right as you pull the trigger. 

Your bullet is faster than his finger, cracking into the man and dropping him from where the bullet lodged in his neck, and the men shout as they drop behind cover at that moment. 

“Come on!” 

The three of you spur your horses forward, their hooves ripping apart the grass and dirt below as they dig in, propelling you forward as you fire off again. 

The bullet clips into the tree one of the men hide behind, and you curse as you come upon them then. 

You drop off of D’or, sending your Trotter running with a light slap to her rump. She gallops off while you duck behind a few boxes the men had set up, and you quickly gauge where Arthur and Charles take cover behind the wagon. 

“You messed with the wrong people now!” one of the men shouts, and he props out from behind the tree the moment Arthur goes to fire. 

The shot hits its mark, ripping through the man’s chest and causing him to gurgle as blood rushes out over his lips before he falls heavily to the ground below. 

Charles pumps his shotgun into one man as he darts along the other side of the wagon, and you fire at the last man standing, dropping the two in sync as the man cowers on the ground. 

Arthur comes up to him, bringing out his hunting knife and cutting the man’s bonds as you and Arthur approach. He’s also speaking German, his tone grateful as Arthur hefts him up. 

“Yeah yeah, come on, let’s get ya back to your family.” 

“Meine familie?” he asks as Arthur guides him over to his Walker, “Bringst du mich zu meiner familie?” 

“How does someone even come up with dem words?” Arthur mutters to himself as you all mount up, the German man hopping onto the back of Arthur’s Walker. 

The man continues to talk to you all in German as you bring him back, with Arthur making the occasional comment to entertain the man as you ride ahead. You and Charles fall back, allowing the outlaw to maintain his one-sided conversation with the foreign man behind him. 

“Think I know why you decided to stick outta camp last night...” Charles says to you as Arthur rides ahead. 

“He’s been rather prickly lately,” you murmur. 

“So just a prick?” 

You chuckle, nodding, “Somethin’ like that...” 

“Well, I think most of this has just been gettin' to him. This ain’t really like him.” 

“I don’t think any of us have really been ourselves as of late.” 

The sun begins to set overhead, and you arrive back at Dewberry Creek to where the mother and her children are waiting. They cry out in relief, sobbing as you reunite them. Your throat tightens some as Arthur gets off of his horse at the assurance of the German man, who guides him by the wrist over to the woman. He explains something to her, and she nods, going over to the wagon. 

Under the broken axle, she produces a small bag, the dark green velvet fabric catching your eye as she places it into Arthur’s hand. 

“What’s this?” 

The man opens it, pulling apart the lace that scrunches the top together. And even from your spot a few feet away, you can see the glint of the gold nuggets that are held preciously inside. 

“Ich danke dir sehr,” he says, voice low and sincere as he looks to the outlaw, “Du hast mein Leben gerettet.” 

“Thank you,” Arthur murmurs, taking the small bag from the man and pocketing it into his satchel as he pulls the lace ribbon taught once more. 

You hear the man whistle, and a few moments later, two draft horses appear from the woods, nickering and nodding their heads. The man looks to you all, again speaking as he ushers his family forward. 

You all say nothing as they get onto the horses, riding off and leaving you behind as you let out a breath. 

“Well... guess kindness does pay.” 

“Guess that’s the only time you care for it.” 

Arthur looks to you, about to say something when Charles stops him before he can even start. 

“We need to head back to camp and let Dutch know that this spot isn’t going to work.” 

Relenting, Arthur hums in agreement, “It’s too open. You could see us from the main road, let alone if we had Raiders pop on us as they did with that family.” 

“Now, that spot the Raiders had, we could definitely make that into a camp. Clemens Point is what I think she said it was.” 

“I think I like that a lot better,” Arthur nods, “Think Dutch’ll take it. Not like we got many options as of late.” 

You ride behind the men then, quiet as they talk to one another about the new site for their camp, and the opportunity that lies within it as you begin to head back to Horseshoe. 

The sun is nearly set as you return to the camp with the storm now having cleared, and you find it practically torn down to nothing as the other members bustle about. Charles and Arthur hop off of their horses as you do, beginning to walk towards where the man sits at where his tent once was, nursing a cigar as he talks to Hosea. 

Noticing your hesitancy at following them, Charles turns, eyes narrowing on you, “You comin’ Wolf?” 

“Nah. Head on without me...” 

Arthur’s face pinches, but he only lingers for a moment before turning, leaving you behind as you stand next to D’or. 

You watch as the two men approach Dutch and Hosea, interrupting their conversation to talk about the new site at Clemens Point. 

In front of you, D’or works her bit in her mouth, shifting on her feet and ripping your attention away as you run a hand along her neck. 

“I know, girl. It’s been a rough day for all of us...” 

The mare turns her head to you, and you sigh as you step away from her, going to walk the long way around. 

You pass through where Pearson’s wagon used to be, the once green grass yellowed from where the wagon had been placed atop it. You see that elsewhere, from where Abigail and Jack’s tent were, alongside John’s. Swanson and Uncle’s tents, the fires that had been lit outside of them now extinguished and deconstructed as you round the lip of the overlook in camp. 

People pass by you wordlessly as you walk through them, covered in gunpowder and dirt, stained and marked by the day you have had as you come upon where your tent once stood. 

The oak overhead sways as you lean against its trunk, looking out over The Heartlands for what feels like the last time. 

You remember looking upon it the say you arrived, wondering for what they held in store for you, as if the change in your setting would alleviate the issues that the people around you carried with them, and the ones that you dragged along yourself. 

The sun dips behind the mountains behind you, casting the sky in one last triumphant shade of orange before twilight begins to settle in, and the world grows darker still. 

You hear some grass crinkle behind you, but you don’t turn, allowing whoever it is to come up to your side. 

“In all my years, I don’t I’ve ever liked the sun setting.” 

Your lips tick upward then, “Doesn’t surprise me much, Hosea.” 

The old man hums, setting his hands on his hips, “Suppose it shouldn’t... I’m not a huge fan of when things come to a close.” 

“So I’ve heard.” 

Sighing, you see the man look to you from the corner of your eye, “I hope you know that I wasn’t sayin’ you were a heartless killer, earlier... Honestly, out of all of ‘em, you’re the only one who—” 

“I’ve killed people, Hosea. There ain’t no way to cover that up or excuse it.” 

Breathing through his nose, Hosea hums, “Maybe not... But you’re honest about it. Reflective about it... I think you’re the only person who walked away from that situation wonderin’ if you came out better for it.” 

“Now I ain’t the only one,” you say, nodding to where you see the old man in question hobbling about with bandages on his leg, “I’m sure Strauss is hopin’ for the same.” 

Despite the seriousness of it all, Hosea laughs, setting a hand on your shoulder as it dies off after a few moments. 

Once it is gone though, the man lets out a sharp inhale, coughing lightly before he speaks. 

“I mean it when I say that the only hope I see for this gang sometimes is in those who are willing to see things that way,” he murmurs, “I’m can only do what I can to help them see things clearly... But this? . . . I’m worried, Wolf.” 

“You ain’t the only one,” you whisper. 

“I know you worry do... For Arthur... Especially since you have started fightin’.” 

Shaking your head, you cross your arms, “I just don’t get why he’s actin’ the way he is... it ain’t like him. None of this is.” 

“Even as a man at his age, he holds onto anger just as he did when he was a boy. And right now, there’s a lot to be angry for,” he lets his hand fall away from your shoulder, “I’m not tellin’ you to write him off any, but he’s stubborn. He refuses to admit he’s wrong or makes mistakes sometimes, even when he knows that’s the case... It takes him a minute to figure it out and get back on track.” 

“So what are you tellin’ me to do?” 

“Give _yourself_ time,” he says quietly, “I can see how much this has all worn on you. And you not comin’ back to camp last night? . . . It just tells me that you need to let yourself breathe before you drown yourself in any of this further.” 

You shake your head, kicking at the ground below as the last few gang members get the wagons settled off to your side. 

“But Hosea—” 

“Everyone! Get on a horse or in one of the wagons! We’re leavin’!” 

Sighing, you mutter, “Guess it’ll have to wait till later.” 

“Don’t forget to give yourself a chance to breathe,” Hosea smiles lightly at you, and he walks away, heading to one of the wagons. 

You look and see you’re the last person truly staying back, and you curse, whistling for D’or. 

The golden Fox Trotter cuts through the gang, weaving through the wagons till she trots up to you. Once she nears, you hop onto her saddle, readying yourself for the ride to Clemens Point as Dutch takes the reins of the wagon at the front, shouting back to you all. 

“Alright! Let’s get a move on!” 

They all push the horses at the front of the wagons, and you wait, allowing them to file out until you are the last one left in the clearing that was once your camp. 

Looking back over your shoulder, you take in the view one more time as the stars glitter in the sky, and the land sweeps around you. 

_“Think we should do a toast, don’t you think?”_

You hear Arthur’s voice in your head then, and you take a deep breath as you grip onto D’or’s reins, now the only person left in Horseshoe as the gang exits out onto the main road. 

_With a smirk, you tilt your head at him, “For what?”_

_“That we managed to get here, after all that mess back west,” he explains, his eyes alight, and he almost seems childishly giddy as he talks._

You spur D’or, your throat tightening as you hear the rest of the memory play in your mind as you head out of Horseshoe for the final time. 

_Offering his bottle to you once more, Arthur proposes another toast, "To things gettin' better," he says._

_"And to them stayin' that way."_

**\---**

The night wears on, the waxing crescent of the moon flowing overhead and offering a little light to Clemens Point as you and the gang begin to mold it into a proper camp.

You’ve said nothing to anyone since you arrived, the last to get off your horse and the last to come upon the clearing. 

Now, it is bustling, with Pearson’s wagon already settled in the middle as he prepares something light for food. The members come up to him wearily, haggard and worn from the day as they grab something like a box of crackers or an apple as their pittance. 

You watch them from the edge of the new camp, your tent and your things beside you, waiting to be unpacked and set up as you eye where everything is going. The sounds of frogs and crickets chirping alike fill in the silence as D’or grazes beside you. 

By the large magnolia tree that stands in the middle of the camp is where Dutch sets up his tent, and beside him, naturally, is Arthur’s wagon. The man is working, opening crates with the few belongings he calls his own packed inside. 

He’s rolled up his shirt sleeves, his forearms already sheening with sweat, alongside his chest from where he has undone the buttons at his collar. In the lantern light, he glows orange, leaning back as he breathes, sweeping back his shoulder-length hair before he seems to realize that your eyes are on him. 

Your gazes lock, and you see the man take in the unfinished state of your tent at your side. 

His curiosity must get the better of him, as he tosses whatever was in his hand onto his cot as he takes a step in your direction. 

But you do no flounder or move. Instead, you allow Arthur to approach, working up the slight incline of the land to where you sit on a stump, your eyes never leaving the man. 

“What are ya doin’?” he says once he gets close enough, brows furrowed, “I woulda thought you would have your tent up by now.” 

“I’m still figuring out where I want it,” you say, voice almost numb to your own ears. 

Looking behind him, the man takes a step back, gesturing to the open space by his tent. 

“You could put it there.” 

Humming, you look away, uninterested. 

“But you’re not goin’ to...” he murmurs. 

Standing, you grab the roll of canvas that is your tent, and you glance to the spot across the way, close to where it seems Abigail is with Jack. 

“Don’t think I am.” 

You can’t bear to look at the expression on Arthur’s face, but his words are enough to give you an idea of how he feels. 

“Oh... I... okay...” 

You lower your chin to your chest, your eyes stinging. 

“I think it’s best if you give me space right now,” you force out, your hands tightening on the strap to your tent. 

“Wolf...” 

He whispers your name so quietly, as though it would hurt him if he uttered it any louder. As though it gutted him of breath. 

“I mean it when I say that... I... I can’t even look at you right now...” 

Taking a step forward, Arthur attempts to hold out a hand to you. 

But you take a step back, and the man’s hand falls away to his side as a tear rolls down your cheek. 

“What did I do?” 

The way he asks sounds like you shot him, but it feels as though the bullet struck you instead. 

“Should I have to explain it to you?” 

“Wolf, I didn’t mean it like that—” 

“I couldn’t even come back to camp last night because I knew you would be there. I couldn’t get my mind off of what you said, what you did,” you grit, holding the role of your tent close to yourself, “And now, I can’t even look at you without wonderin’ if I even knew you at all.” 

Arthur is quiet, and you shake your head, laughing lightly and forcing back your tears. 

“But I guess you’re right, I got myself into this. I knew what you were from the start, but I had hoped... Just hoped that—” 

You can’t even finish the sentence, and you shake your head, stepping down to head into camp. 

“Wolf, I—” you slow only a little, hearing Arthur’s muted voice come from behind you then, “I’m sorry.” 

“I am too,” your voice breaks, and you force yourself to walk away from him then. 

You head across the camp, ignoring the other’s stares s you set your tent up next to Abigail’s. Jack is already asleep, worn out from the day as you begin to drive the supports for your canvas into the ground. 

Abigail stops drinking her cup of coffee, looking rather tired herself as she takes in what you are doing. 

“You’re stayin’ there?” she asks. 

“Liked the spot better.” 

She hums, sipping her coffee as you watch her look to where Arthur stomps back into his tent, rolling the canvas down over it for the first time ever. 

“He must’ve really upset you, didn’t he?” 

“I’d rather not talk about it...” 

Abigail nods, “Got it... Sorry if I came off as pryin’.” 

“No... I know you just wanna make sure things are okay.” 

“And are you okay?” 

Letting out a shaky sigh, you work the canvas onto the first support you’ve driven into the ground. 

“I think with time, I will be.” 

“Well, if you aren’t, just tell me,” Abigail murmurs, “He wasn’t the only one that came to care ‘bout ya.” 

Nodding, you murmur, “Thank you...” 

She leaves you alone then, walking away as you put your tent together. 

By the time it is finished, the sun is slowly rising, coming up and coloring the waters of Flat Iron Lake with a soft haze of blue as you sit down in your finished tent. You feel your exhaustion deep in your bones, but your mind is far from tired. If anything, it is restless, almost as though it were a lion prowling about its cage, longing to be free. 

A few of the gang members wake, and you sigh, looking into your satchel for something to occupy yourself with. You think that maybe you could wear yourself out in some way if you could find the right outlet. 

As you open your satchel, you find your mother’s letter, held up from where you had begun reading it the day before. You bite your lip between your teeth as you think about it, and you scowl as your fingers dip into your satchel. 

Slowly, you pull the letter out, and you find where you were reading the last page. 

There is not much else there, with your mother wishing you well and concluding her letter, and you frown, finding that there are far more pages than you would’ve thought. You flip the last sheet with your mother’s writing over, only to let out a breath as you realize what she had done. 

_For you, my fleur._

It is nothing but a stack of blank pages, all for you to write upon. 

You take a deep breath, and you stand, looking out to the rest of the camp then. 

Across from your tent is a log, resting right along the banks of the lake. You see then that Mary-Beth is there, writing away with her pencil. 

You go over to her, and she turns her head as she hears you approach. 

“Hey, Wolf!” she grins, beaming at you as you sit down beside her, your mother’s letter in hand. 

“Mary-Beth, I— . . . could I borrow your pencil?” 

“What for?” 

You hold your mother’s letter in front of you, and you murmur, “I... I’m replyin’ to a letter.” 

“Oh,” she perks some, closing her journal then, “I didn’t know you wrote.” 

“Neither did I, until just now,” you hum. 

Mary-Beth hands over her pencil then, smiling softly. 

“Just give it back when you’re done.” 

“Of course,” you tell her when she stands, “I owe you one, Mary-Beth.” 

She nods at you, walking away and back into camp, leaving you alone on the log as the sun rises over the lake ahead. Gripping tightly onto the pencil, you take a deep breath as you mull over what you can say. 

So many things, so many emotions... Where do you start? How do you start? In what way could you manage to fit all of what you want to say on paper? 

Especially now, with everything that is happening? 

You’re not exactly sure, but you guess there is only ever one way to find out. 

After mulling it over for some time, you give in, pressing the tip of the pencil against the parchment to begin writing.

**\---**

Teeth sink into flesh, and antlers piece through skin.

The buck and the black wolf circle one another, bloodied and wounded from their fight as the white wolf and doe struggle at their sides. 

The two breath roughly, winded and weak from their battle as their partners call to them. 

The peace of the forest is lost, even as the buck stumbles backward, and the black wolf limps heavily to the side. Despite their injuries, the two still eye each other with an immense distaste, the desire for the other to drop dead before they ever gave up. 

And so they go at each other again, despite their wounds and the ones to come, for they know nothing more than how to fight. 

For it is hard to overcome one’s base nature, or their baser instincts — the desire for victory, the desire to survive. 

But most of all, the desire for life, no matter its cost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'd like to support me, I have a ko-fi now!  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DvNF51-TSAQ  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eCU2XMpVak


	11. Chapter III — Clemens Point I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s comin’ up the way... On my mark, we leave on three, with guns at the ready,” he takes a deep breath, “Now, we just take out the guards or anyone who tries to take us out first. Ain’t no need to go killin’ everyone.” 
> 
> “Why, Uncle, you ruin all the fun,” Micah snickers. 
> 
> Uncle doesn’t give Micah the time of day, now gripping onto his Saddler’s reins to ready himself for their onslaught. You notice then, though, that Micah doesn’t cover his face, smirking wickedly as he readies his two Colts. 
> 
> “One...” 
> 
> You swallow, readying D’or with one hand as you grab onto your carbine with the other. 
> 
> “Two...” 
> 
> Taima lifts her head a bit, shifting as Charles eyes narrow, and he grips onto his sawed-off shotgun tightly. 
> 
> “Three!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so our first taste of chapter 3/Clemens Point! 
> 
> I wish this chapter was a little longer, but unfortunately, I found myself plagued with tendinitis after my vacation at the tail end of June (which I didn't even do anything to warrant it, apart from being really sick with what I think was the flu), and I had to take it easy for about a week, which I'm still doing now to an extent. So yeah, I haven't had any further flare ups, and one prescription of steroids seemed to do the trick, but just in case, future chapters may take longer to come out due if there's something that goes on with my tendons in the future.
> 
> If something like that does happen, I'll make an edit here on the author's note, as well as a post on my tumblr (@sunshinexlollipops).
> 
> Otherwise, I'm tired, and I have work in a few hours, so with a quick run through grammarly and a heavy dose of "fuck it," you all can have at! :')
> 
> Enjoy!~

## CHAPTER III: CLEMENS POINT

#### TEN DAYS LATER. . .

At the edge of Clemens Point, at the lower end of its lip, there is a log that has washed up on the lake’s shore. It’s worn, smoothed out by the waters that had heaved it up into the gravel-like sand of the banks, just a few feet now from the reach of the water.

It’s the perfect seat, you’ve found out, with its location being perfect for watching rock and large-mouth bass, alongside the occasional bluegill or sturgeon swim about the muddy water. In fact, you’ve even gotten to see a cottonmouth snake hunt its dinner one evening, catching a small perch and slithering off into the reeds a few yards away as you watched on in silence.

But more than anything, it was perfect to watch the sunrises here, with the log angled perfectly towards the east with its perch upon the bank. And you have made quite the habit of waking early each morning to watch the sunrise above the waters, shifting the pale blues in the sky to a beautiful golden hue that almost matches with Flat Iron Lake exactly. It’s like the water and sky have no end, mirroring and shimmering into one another as you simply took deep breaths, and watched.

These past ten days, they have been filled with little to nothing more than you taking residence somewhere by yourself. Of course, the girls would occasionally visit, with Karen being one of your more frequent guests of honor in this habit of yours. And there was Charles, or Hosea, who would come around and check up on you, always bringing small things like a warm mug of coffee or a blanket for when the evenings grew cold, and the fires were too far to warm you any as you sat at the banks of the river.

They were worried, you could tell. Karen, well, she thought you were brooding, and to some extent, she was correct in that aspect. But in others, she was quite incorrect. You were thinking things over, still feeling that sting from what happened even as it abated some in the passing days. Like the stages of grief, your anger over what happened evolved and shifted, morphing over into disappointment and guilt. But, also, surprisingly, an ache you couldn’t place.

You felt it when you looked at Arthur’s tent or saw him from across the way. You felt it when you sat on your perch by the lake, seeing a large stork as it spread its expansive wings and all you could think of how beautiful it would look if Arthur sketched it into his journal.

It was little things that had a deep impact, as though it were a splinter that turned into a wound given time and the right conditions to fester. So brooding, to an extent was right, but your misery wasn’t all due to your upset, but by how things felt after.

Karen still gave you some room though, toning down her usual mirth and barb to be a bit more offering of comfort when she visited you. She spoke to you about Sean, about Mary-Beth and Tilly. She even got you to laugh with a story about how Swanson had found a mouse in his shoe that morning, and only found out when he had gone to put it on.

She brought a little light to the dark that hung around you, and you were grateful for it.

Meanwhile, Hosea fretted, thinking you had been shaken up too much. He was worried you had broken like he had warned you of, despite your assurances to the contrary. The truth was, you needed to figure things out, needed to overlook where you stood once all was said in done.

And Hosea had asked you, asked if you were done to the point of leaving, but you couldn’t give him an answer.

It was strange, thinking about that concept now but in a very pressing way. Unlike a hypothetical situation or during your conversations of the future, this was more at hand. More in the present, and more in reality than any possibility.

You could tell Karen worried too, asking if you were thinking of places to go if you were looking to get out of camp. Of course, she phrased it like you were needing space more than an out, but you knew better than that. You could tell by her eyes, by the doubt she held within them, that she expected you to leave.

Because you knew why.

Arthur, he was practically all that was really keeping you here, and it was a fact that was unsettling you like nothing else. It was what has caused your fracture to worsen, for your mental debate to cloud like a brewing storm as you sat at the edge of camp.

You can’t lie, you thought about it. Thought about what it would be like to step away from all of this, to get out of the robbing and running, to be free of the trouble that the gang had caused you.

But you had no idea where you could go, and while you had some money, it wouldn’t be enough to start back up on. Or maybe it was also for the fact that the south was dangerous for anyone on their own, let alone a woman, with the raiders and other nasty folks as they were.

It was as though every time you tried to consider it, your brain would stall, only offering reasons as to why running off would be more harm than good.

So you didn’t think of it, even when Hosea asked you over and over as a record stuck on a loop. Because there was no possible way for you to answer.

The old man seemed to piece it together about the fourth time he questioned you, and the conversation soon shifted to your well-being, and other desires you may have, but you truly just wanted it to stop.

And with Charles, he voiced no assumptions.

Truly, his company was the best, with the man offering no words or suggestions as Hosea did, or gossip and callouts as Karen preferred. He only sat with you, carving arrows or sharpening his hunting knife. His presence was an unspoken offer of support, and it meant the most to you as it allowed you to breathe as you needed in his company.

He was there for you, allowing you to do as you needed without any judgment or expectation, without any inquiries or ulterior agendas. The man was simply there for you, and it meant more than anything to have him at your side, solely for how you needed him to be.

It was just that you couldn’t exactly shake what had happened, back in Horseshoe before you left. You could still see Downes’ battered face on the back of your eyelids as you slept, or the cries and screams from the townsfolk in Valentine who called for your head when you attempted to listen to anything but the gentle roll of the lake before you.

You were doing better than before, coming to terms with everything slowly as you paced and distanced yourself, but it was still hard. Especially when Dutch didn’t seem to understand why it is that you had broken off as you had, let alone on Arthur.

You could tell the man was growing tired with whatever drama was going on between you and the outlaw, especially with the way that it had soured Arthur’s mood to the point of the man snapping on anyone who dared approach him. If the sour looks were anything to go by, you knew that the man wasn’t going to be patient any longer, not with Arthur brooding as he was, and there being a distinct fracture between you two that carried itself across the camp.

It also didn’t help that Molly was fighting against him more, her yelling audible from even at your end of camp. You heard far too much from the Irish woman, and you could hear her hurt as clear as day, alongside Dutch’s irritation. The man was growing rather irritated with her, preferring to stand outside of or avoid his tent altogether, as he lingered in there ready to fight, like a wick always too close to a burning match.

Molly’s uprooting of Dutch lead to the man being more active than he ever was, often taking up company with Micah in camp. It was worrisome, with the way Micah seemed to butter the man up, and Dutch took it in without hesitation. The praise that Micah offered, the honeyed words that felt hollow underneath the façade of gratification he pushed off onto Dutch. It was so bad, you expected the man’s tongue to have browned from how often he seemed to lick Dutch’s boots.

And of course, Dutch absorbed it, took it in without a problem and eagerly so. He fed off of it, grew bolder with it, and because of Micah, Dutch was already back to old habits and even worse than before.

It seemed that the man had no intention of laying low, just as Arthur had said on the ride to relocate the gang right when everything in Horseshoe went to shit.

You know that, despite everything, he was back to scheming. In fact, the man had gone with Hosea and Arthur on a fishing trip, discussing his latest ideas as to what they could do now that they were here in Lemonye and settled down into Clemens Point. Hosea had told you a little of what happened, of the ideas that Dutch bounced off onto them, each lined with the hopes for gold and money aplenty, especially after running into town and meeting up with the sheriff.

They happened upon Trelawny in the back of a barred wagon, having gotten caught for his gold scheme and was arrested. In their attempts to free the man, the other prisoners had gotten loose, and Arthur was sent to catch one of the leaders of a local faction of raiders. The sheriff was so impressed, he befriended the lot of them, telling them about the prominent family he worked for, the Grays.

He told Hosea and Dutch about how their family was at odds with another, the Braithwaites. A long-running feud it was, with the sheriff mentioning their squabble over their respective fortunes. And with the dry seasons and the Braithwaites losing money from the civil war, it seemed that tensions were as high as ever.

And of course, it all went downhill from there.

Dutch only wants to keep up to his antics, especially so now having heard about the local families and the age-old feud that grew between them like the tobacco plants lining their plantations. It spoke of old money and hidden fortunes, and with that distinct twinkle in Dutch’s eye as he stood outside of his tent, smoking his cigar in the evenings with a smirk on his face, he had every intention of getting involved in it.

In fact, the man had already somewhat messed around in the whole charade, having helped out the sheriff in Rhodes with hitting some of the Braithwaites illicit side business in bootlegging. You’re not exactly certain what happened since you were back in camp as things transpired, but you know that it involved a lot of illegal moonshine and getting an in with the sheriff. So much so that the man made Dutch, Bill, and even Arthur honorary deputies.

Which, oh, that was a sight to see, happening to catch sight of Arthur coming back into camp, a bronze star pinned to his shirt. It made you pause, running into the man at Pearson’s wagon as you went to collect your portion of soup. It was the closest you had been since coming to Clemens Point and telling Arthur to stay away, and the tension was so thick, Pearson could probably hack at it with his butcher’s cleaver.

But seeing that badge... it made you scoff, and Arthur didn’t miss the reaction, which seemed to really benefit his already soured mood. He had stomped away, leaving without even getting his soup, and causing everyone to eye you both awkwardly as you departed as well, heading back to your own tent where Jack waited for you to read him a story.

Arthur, a deputy. It was a travesty within itself.

But Dutch wasn’t bothered over their new roles. If anything, he seemed more than chipper, and more than excited to have gained the trust of the sheriff of Rhodes. He labeled the town a no-gun zone, sternly telling the camp that Rhodes was to remain off-limits from any weapons or violence that could be enacted upon it by the gang.

He seemed rather serious to keep in the good graces of the sheriff, and it didn’t bode well as he discussed matters with Hosea about how to use the advantage of such a naïve kindness and trust. Especially where money was involved. You could hear the man’s ringing laugh across the camp, with the way he talked about Hosea snaking his way onto the Braithwaites plantation with the leftover moonshine they’d acquired in their raid with the sheriff.

Hosea wasn’t exactly as keen as getting involved as Dutch was, but you could see the man relent some, agreeing that he’d come up with something soon. But soon didn’t seem good enough for Dutch, not with the way he was planning to orchestrate this whole thing.

You knew that sooner rather than later, the man would force his hand, and you would be right back to making a mess of things now that the Pinkertons were in the gray about your whereabouts once more.

It was like the man could never shut that desire off— that he could never shake the habit of chasing after what he thought to be the faint rattle of coins on the wind, despite how often it never brought him anything worth the trouble it caused him.

And you suspect, as Dutch comes your way as you sit on your perch per your new habit, that the man is about to start running after that tease once more.

“Ms. Broce,” Dutch says with a charming smile that feels anything but, “Seems like you linger here quite a bit.”

“I like the quiet,” you state, “Or at least, I did.”

Dutch makes a face of mock hurt, but you can see a slight bit of irritation in his eyes as he covers a hand on his chest, “Your words wound me, Ms. Broce.”

You hum, looking back over to the lake before you, “What is it that you want, Dutch?”

“I was wonderin’,” the man states, and you press against yourself, drawing up and taking up less room as the man sits down on the log beside you, uncaring as his legs spread and he gestures to Flat Iron Lake, “what’s so great about starin’ at this all day? All I’ve seen you do since we got here is come to this spot. I was curious as to what warranted such attention.”

You grimace, shifting and staring ahead as you try to ignore the man at your side as best as you can manage, “It’s calming. And it’s a hell of a lot better than starin’ at a horse’s ass across the way.”

Dutch laughs, but you find no humor in it as the man slaps at his knee. He does seem tickled pink with you, in some way, but it’s not something you take pride or comfort in as he looks to you. From the corner of your eye, you can see how Dutch studies you intently, and your skin crawls under his scrutiny.

The truth is, he’s been looking at you a lot more recently, especially now with Arthur remaining absent from your side. His curiosity has grown alongside his confidence with you, and each day he has edged further in your direction until finally biting the bullet to visit you today.

You’re not sure as to why, but you can imagine you won’t like the reason once it reveals itself.

“I must say, you are _very_ entertaining, Ms. Broce...” he pauses, voice lowering, “You know, I don’t think I’ve quite gotten to spend that much time with you since you’ve joined our troop. This is... why, this is the third conversation that you and I have had on our own since Arthur picked you up outside of Blackwater.”

“I aim to keep them sparse.”

“It may come as a surprise, but I like women with bits of spite. I find their fires far more warming than anything scornful,” he purrs, smirking at you.

Frowning, you dare to question him, “And how does Molly feel about that sort of thing?”

“Doesn’t matter what she thinks,” Dutch assures you, charismatically trying to play off your doubt, “Molly... she and I... well, to be frank with you Ms. Broce, I believe that Molly has had just about enough of me.”

“Ah. Makes sense.”

Dutch nods, not understanding your quip, “Yes, my predicament is rather unfortunate. We’ve danced around one another for a year or so, but I believe my time with her is nigh on done. ‘Specially with that mouth of hers... I reckon I’ll be a free man soon enough. And who’s to say what possibilities a free man can have.”

Your stomach shifts and you take a deep breath.

“But, I do have to admit, your fine company isn’t all that I seek at the moment,” Dutch murmurs, “I was wonderin’ if you could help out with somethin’.”

“And that is?” you bite out.

“Hosea and I are comin’ up with a plan involvin’ these families here. The Grays and Braithwaites here, they’ve been fightin’ for as long as anyone can remember about all this money they have tucked away, and I was wonderin’ if I could use some... _female persuasion_ when it came to things.”

You can’t help it, you shoot Dutch a glare at the suggestion.

“I ain’t a whore.”

“No, I know you aren’t, and that ain’t what I’m askin’ of you,” the way Dutch’s eyes heat on you, however, you know that the man wouldn’t exactly be beyond such a proposition, “But I heard that the Grays have a young man comin’ of age, goes by the name of Beau. The sheriff was tellin’ me about him, told me his family was lookin’ to wed him soon, so you could work that angle. I heard he’s quite striking too, so I doubt it would be a hardship if you got to talkin’ to him about this supposed blood feud with the Braithwaites.”

Frowning, you stand, eyes narrowing on the man, “So you want me to use my supposed _female persuasion_ to get information out of this Beau of yours?”

“Yes.”

“And why on earth would I do that?”

Dutch grins, shrugging lightly, “Well, to find out about this fortune of theirs, of course. They’re old money, Ms. Broce. They’ve got a plantation that spans twenty acres. And while the season’s been dry, they got a subsidy with Jolly Jacks for the tobacco they grow. It’s worth a lotta money. More than just what we’ve been pullin’ in.”

“’Course it is.”

“Now, the rumor is that they’re sitting on an even larger fortune, one they’re tryin’ to hide from the Braithwaites. The sheriff told me that when the two families began sparring over fifty years ago, the Braithwaites stole a bit of the Grays fortune, and thus they’ve been fightin’ ever since. I just need to you talk to Beau and see how much of a fortune they got, and they can part with.”

“You’ve got to be kiddin’ me...”

Dutch frowns lightly, “I’m not, Ms. Broce. Not on somethin’ like this,” he uses his hands, gesturing as he does during one of his enigmatic pieces as he preaches to the gang, “We can get plenty of money outta the Grays, and the Braithwaites if we play them write. Get ‘em to trust us, hit ‘em, and make them think the other family was the cause. They’ll be too caught up in their own farce to be concerned with us.”

“I highly doubt that. Money like that, as you describe it, just don’t disappear without a fuss over the person who took it.”

“Yes, which is why we’re plannin’ on makin’ this foolproof. Two sides, two angles. You work the Grays through Beau, and Arthur works the Braithwates by swoonin’ over their pride n’ joy, Penelope.”

You blink, looking at Dutch then, “Wait... You want Arthur to do what?”

“Sheriff Gray told me they have a daughter comin’ of age too, and that the Braithwaites intend on sendin’ her off to be trained in the ways of a proper woman,” Dutch chuckles at that, shaking his head, “I figure, we give her a ruffian as she so desires, we can get what we want out of it too.”

Scowling, you murmur, “So you’re gonna have Arthur pretend to be sweet with her to get information?”

“He may be a little older than a young buck like Beau, but he’s definitely worth standin’ on his own. Why, when he was younger, Arthur had girls fawnin’ all over him.”

“I can imagine...” you grimace.

Shaking his head, Dutch continues, “It should help us get what we’re lookin’ for. You and Arthur win over Beau and Penelope, and the two will practically let us in on their fortunes, as any lovesick lovebird will do.”

With a click of your tongue, you voice your dubiety, “You act like people are just that simple, and just that stupid, Dutch. You can’t rely solely on them fallin’ for us to get you a fortune that you don’t even know exists.”

“Oh, it exists,” Dutch’s eyes narrow, growing clouded with a greed that makes your mouth feel dry as you witness it flash behind his irises, “I know it does.”

You scoff, shaking your head and stepping away, causing Dutch to stand and walk after you, “You are truly delusional, Mr. Van Der Linde, and just as assumin’ to boot.”

“Now now, Ms. Broce,” he reaches your side, and you look up to the sky in a silent plead of reprieve as Dutch stops you with a hand on your shoulder, his voice lowering, “There’s no need to be like that.”

Huffing, you level the man with a suspicious look, “And you just think that what, I can go in there, bat my eyelashes, and little ol’ Beau will just tell me anythin’ I want to know?”

Dutch’s voice is gritty as he chuckles, “I can assure you, any man would if you did. Especially a young buck in their prime. Why, I’d probably tell Agent Milton where we were if he baited me with you.”

“I told you, I’m not a whore,” you snip, feeling disgusted with the man before you, “And I’m certainly not yours. Arthur ain’t yours to give away like that, neither. We’re people, not god damn pawns for your games.”

Dutch makes a face at that as you stomp away from him, skin crawling as he calls after you a few times.

But you ignore him alongside a few eyes from a few of the gang members as you go to the opposite end of the camp, passing by the massive sycamore tree that sprouts in the middle of the camp as you take in the sight of D’or.

You’re just about to saddle up when you hear your name get called out, but this time, not by Dutch. No, it’s Sean of all people, and he is jogging over with a jump in his step as he nears you.

“Goin’ out?” the Irishman asks, a little breathless.

“Just tryin’ to get out of here,” your hands lower from where you had placed them on the sides of your Fox Trotter, “Why’d you ask?”

“Oh, me n’ Uncle is about to get into somethin’, and we need a couple ‘a hands. And with the way you handled yourself on that train job, I’d love to extend the invitation,” Sean then points to where you see the old man by his Kentucky Saddler across the way, “You wanna come along?”

“Just get me away from Dutch, and we got a deal.”

Grabbing ahold of D’or’s reins to guide her, Sean’s brows furrow as he asks, “What’s wrong with Dutch?”

“Just... I’m tryin’ to avoid talkin’ to him, is all.”

Sean hums, and you can see his suspicion as you approach Uncle. The old man turns, hearing your approach as D’or whinnies softly at the old man and Nell II in greeting, causing the old man’s cherubic cheeks to bulge with a smile.

“Ah, Ms. D’or and Ms. Broce!” Uncle grins, slightly wobbling over to extend his palm forth, his fingers opening to reveal sugar cubes to the mare who grows excited at your side, “Say, I haven’t gotten to give you a treat in a minute, have I, girl?”

D’or takes the sugar cubes from Uncle gratefully, munching on her treat as you smile softly at Uncle.

“You visit her often?”

“How can I not? She’s a gorgeous creature. Especially now that her weight has gotten up, and she’s shinin’ bright as can be. Why, I’d say she’s more stunnin’ than a bar of gold now!” Uncle praises, “A horse like her deserves nothin’ short of bein’ spoiled.”

“I’m sure she agrees with you.”

D’or rumbles a hearty agreement to that as she devours her treat.

“Well, that all bein’ said, it’s nice to hear that you’ll be joinin’ us today Ms. Broce. In fact, I was rather convinced that you would’ve stuck us up.”

Chuckling, you shake your head, “No... Not today, I’m afraid.”

“You say that like you _wished_ you did.”

“Maybe I do, maybe I don’t,” theatrically, you joke, “The world may never know.”

Uncle huffs, but the sound is humorous underneath it all. He nods to Sean, who has been watching and listening to you two up until now.

“Who else is comin’?”

“Well, I asked Charles. I thought he’d be perfect— big bastard like him ridin’ up on ya, not even needin’ a gun ta get ya all shook up! I’m sure he’s got himself a few hefty purses in his day just by bein’ all intimidatin’!”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

Sean jumps, looking behind him to find Charles smirking like the big bastard he is, Taima at his side.

“Oi! ‘Bout gave me a heart attack, ya mad man!”

Chuckling, Charles explains, “It’s just the intimidation factor.”

“Right, right,” Sean mutters, a bit chipped on his shoulder, “How could I forget?”

Humming, Charles comes beside you, and Taima goes to socialize a little with D’or, the other mare nodding to her and touching her once in reassurance. D’or, meanwhile, makes a happy noise and seems to enjoy Taima’s attention.

“You’re comin’ along?” Charles asks, voice only loud enough for you to really here, and it breaks your attention away from your horses as you shift your eyes to him, “I thought you would be sittin’ this one out, like everything else.”

You frown slightly as Sean and Uncle begin to bicker in front of you both, “Well, I got a bit of motivation today,” you state, “Dutch paid me a visit.”

Charles’ face scrunches at that, “And? What did he have to say?”

“Well, he mentioned his and Hosea’s recent fixation on these two families here in Lemoyne. Braithwaites and Grays, he said they were. Apparently, he and Hosea intend on messin’ with them in hopes to get ahold of this money they’re apparently fightin’ over.”

“And what did he intend with havin’ you getting involved right alongside them?”

“Well, it ain’t nothin’ kind, but... the Grays have a son, _comin’ of age_ as Dutch liked to call it. And of course, me bein’ a woman, I have the gift of _female persuasion_ apparently.”

At that, Charles’ eyes widen, and he leans back a little in shock, “He asked you to do something like that?”

“Oh, well he clarified it wasn’t gonna get that far. Though I really doubt he intended for there to be a limit if it got him the information he wants outta Beau. He practically told me all I gotta do is bat my eyelashes, and any man would tell me what I wanna know.”

Charles eyes narrow, and the man’s voice is a bit rough as he speaks, “He shouldn’t be talkin’ about you like that. Let alone trying to use you in such a way.”

“Well, that’s what happened. And, if it makes matters worse in some way, he intends on usin’ Arthur in a similar manner for the Braithwaites and their daughter, Penelope,” you murmur as Sean and Uncle’s shouts grow a little in volume, “I just got tired of hearin’ him talk about us like we’re nothin’ more than tools to use, ‘specially like that. And that’s why I got to join in on whatever the hell this is...”

“You shouldn’t be havin’ to run or stay away from him.”

“Yeah, well, there’s a lot of things that shouldn’t be happenin’,” you state a bit harshly, “And yet, here we are...”

“Boys, boys!” Karen comes up, looking between Uncle and Sean as they huff and puff at one another, “Now, there’s no need to be shootin’ each other’s heads off when there ain’t even a stagecoach in sight!”

Frowning lightly, you look between them all, echoing with, “Stagecoach?”

“Oh, I’m guessin’ Sean here didn’t share the details,” Uncle says with a bit of reprimand in his voice, to which Sean glares his way until Karen comes up to his side to calm him down, “But I got a lead from the man at the railway station, up in Rhodes. Weird fella, think his name was somethin’ like Alvin, but nevertheless, he got me a rather good heads up on a stagecoach comin’ through Scarlett Meadows today.”

You swallow, nodding, “Ah. And I’m guessin’ we’re robbin’ it? . . .”

“That we are, Ms. Broce!” Uncle says, all cheerful and carefree as he always is, “Say, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten to get myself into one of these escapades.”

“That poor back of yours surely put you outta commission, didn’t it, old man?”

Scoffing, Uncle points a finger at Sean, “Lumbago is a serious medical condition! I don’t expect a young shit such as yourself to understand how taxin’ it is!”

“Oh yeah, sittin’ ‘round n’ snoozin’ all day sounds like such a hardship, Uncle,” Sean jokes with a bright smile, and Karen, who has wrapped herself around his waist, laughs and grins at him.

“ _Enough,_ ” Charles says, stepping forward and ceasing the shots the two were taking at one another, “When is this stagecoach supposed to come?”

Uncle hums, “Well, he said about midday, and I guess we got another ten minutes or so.”

“Do we have everything? Is there anything else we’re waiting on?” Charles asks.

“Well, I did ask one more just now...” Sean mutters, growing quiet.

“And who is that?”

A throat clears itself, and you turn, taking in the familiar sight of mahogany bay Walker and the man who accompanies it.

Your breath leaves you, and you _feel_ the moment that Arthur’s eyes move to you, just as your own gravitate towards him.

You haven’t seen the outlaw much in this past week and a half since you arrived at Clemens Point. Despite all of his shortfalls during your final moments at Horseshoe, the man did keep good on your request about keeping his distance. So far, you have only gotten the occasional glimpse of the man before he sulks down into his tent, or rides out to stay out of camp for a few days on errands.

Despite it only being ten days that have passed, the man looks a lot different from when you had told him to stay away during the night you arrived at Clemens Point. His hair that brushes his shoulders look greasy and unkempt, and his skin sheens with both grime and sweat. His beard also appears unruly, now just thick enough to cover the curve of his jaw from your gaze. But the biggest thing to note about his appearance are the bags that have formed under his eyes.

Dark and purple, like the bruises that had lined his knuckles when he had come back to camp after collecting from Strauss, or the new ones that accompanied them after Arthur had attacked Downes in the middle of Valentine. Those bruises are healing now, turning yellow and black the curves and juts of his knuckles now, but they are a testament. A reminder. Just as the socket-deep shadows cast under Arthur’s eyes. Except, instead of speaking of the actions he has taken, these stand for his lack. There’s a glint in his eye, just like the metallic sheen off of his bronze deputy badge that he has pinned to his gray union shirt.

You shift uneasily on your feet, growing uncomfortable in a way that no one in the group misses, least of all Arthur.

You can see the man steels himself, pretending to puff his chest and take your reaction as gracefully as possible. But there is no grace with what comes next.

“Arthur, you look like shit,” Uncle blurts.

The outlaw scowls harshly, glaring at the old man across from him, “Thanks for pointin’ that out.”

Shrugging, the old man coughs a little before he speaks once more, “So, uh... We all ready?”

“Just two more.”

“Two more?” Uncle glares at Sean then, “How many people did you invite, boy? The whole damn gang?”

“Just us two.”

You turn your head, and your frown deepens as you take in the sight of Micah. He has Baylock with him, the small Fox Trotter at his side. Bill is also with him, Brown Jack faithfully at his hip and dwarfing the colt beside him.

Sneering, Arthur looks to Sean, “Why did you invite Micah?”

“Oh, not happy to see me, Morgan?” Micah grins awfully at him then, and you feel the hint of goosebumps pull at your skin at the expression.

“Not when we’re supposed to be doin’ a job, not makin’ a massacre.”

“Funny. You’re beloved Ms. Broce seemed to drop you back in Valentine for doin’ the same thing.”

Arthur’s glare is murderous as your hand tightens around D’or’s reins in your hand.

“He’s got a point, Arthur,” Bill says, and it earns the man a look from Arthur as well.

“Okay, cut that shit out,” Charles sends a venomous and heavy look between the two men, “Let’s get this job done, and we’ll be out of everyone’s hair as soon as we can manage.”

A begrudging communal nod or stilted word of agreement rings out in the air from the group, and Uncle hums.

“Alright. We ain’t gotta ride far, but we need to make it quick if we’re gonna hit where the coach is ridin’ through.”

As he spoke, Karen gives Sean a quick peck on the cheek, and she murmurs something to him. The two lovebirds seem to be biding each other goodbye as Charles and Uncle begin to saddle up, and as you grip onto D’or’s reins, preparing to heft yourself up to her side and onto your saddle, you watch as Karen pulls as Sean’s hand loosely as she walks away.

“Stay safe,” she tells him, and you can see the serious glint in her eye — that unspoken notion of worry.

“’Course, darlin’. I’ll be back before ya know it.”

Uncle whistles as Karen heads back into the heart of the camp, and Sean’s cheeks burn as red as his hair at the sound as Uncle zones in on him.

“You’re sweeter on her than a damn candy bar,” Uncle jokes.

“Oh, shut up, Uncle! I bet it’s been a while for you since you’ve had any woman to be sweet with. In fact, I’m sure all of your women have been like swallowin’ tar, after you paid ‘em.”

That gets a snort out of Charles, and Uncle huffs, hurt.

“You kids have no respect for your elders,” Uncle mutters, and the rest of the group saddles up as he sulks.

“Can we get this damn show on the road?” Arthur snips lightly, “Or are we gonna poke at everyone until we miss the coach?”

Uncle is the first to move, spurring Nell II to guide the group forth as he speaks over his shoulder, “You really are a bitter man, Arthur!”

“I’d say It's ‘cause Wolf doesn’t wanna be sweet with you no more!” Sean jests as he rides second to Uncle.

Arthur takes up the spot beside Sean to his right, and you and Charles acquire the middle, with Micah and Bill heading the rear of your posse as you ride out of camp.

“Oh, fuckin’ shut it, will you?” Arthur growls.

Sean raises his right hand in mock surrender, “Hey now, no need to get like that, Morgan.”

“Don’t say anything about it then...”

“You know, you’re a righteous bastard when you wanna be,” Sean comments.

“Don’t give me a reason then...”

You sigh, and to your side, Charles talks to you as the sections of the posse break off into their own separate conversations.

Charles rides a little closer to you so you can hear him over the thundering hooves of the horses, and the chatter from the men in front of and behind you.

“You alright?” he asks.

“Just peachy.”

Humming, Charles nods as you begin to pass through the swatch of trees that encases the trail leading to the main road on the north end of camp, “You know, it’s not too late to back out if you wanted.”

“I’m not gonna back out,” you mutter, “I can handle the men makin’ comments. Long as it’s just this... ‘Sides, this shouldn’t take too long. Should be just a quick raise of a gun and we’re out, right?”

“Yeah, should be.”

“Then there ain’t really much to deal with. Suppose this is all the talkin’ we’re gonna get before we’re on our way back with the take,” you state, letting your shoulder relax some as you come out of the small thicket of woods, and out onto the main road, “I should be fine, Charles... But I appreciate you askin’.”

“Course,” he says, and you two opt to ride on in silence.

The ride doesn’t take much longer, with you going up the road until you’re up near Southfield Flats. Uncle calls for the group to slow down, keeping you behind a slight hill that frames the main road as he rides up over its crest.

Going into one of the pouches of his saddle, the man removes a pair of binoculars, bringing them up to his face to peer down the road that curves into the obscured cover of trees in the distance.

You all form a line behind the hill, taking up the positions from left to right as you had ridden, with you and Charles taking the middle still as you stay hidden from anyone who would be coming up the road.

Meanwhile, Uncle tries his best to pinpoint the stagecoach.

“Isn’t supposed to be comin’ up the way now?” Sean says to him as Uncle frowns, “You said it was all of what, ten minutes?”

“Yeah, well sometimes things don’t go according to plan.”

Cursing, Micah grips onto Baylock’s reins as his Trotter shifts from underneath him, “And we shouldn’t expect them to, not with you takin’ charge.”

Uncle turns, taking the binoculars off just enough to glare back at Micah, “You say that, but there’s a reason why no one has trusted you to take care of nothin’ on your own.”

Charles whistles, and the line gets a laugh out of both Sean and Arthur. And you can’t help but smile yourself, even as Micah’s eyes darken on the lot of you.

“Oh, a bunch of bastards you are! And of course, one bitch!”

“You best watch what you say, Micah,” Arthur growls from the other end of your line, and he leans back enough to where he and Micah can make eye contact.

“Oh, so she can tell you to fuck off, but you’ll still vie for her?” Micah laughs, the sound degrading as it rings out into the air, “Well well well, Morgan, I didn’t think you could be so _whipped—_ ”

“The stagecoach is comin’! Shut the hell up!” Uncle hisses.

Arthur and Micah do quiet, but albeit, just barely. The two men have a fiery tension between them, and you’re in the middle of it as Uncle pulls Nell II back over the top of the hill to meet you all back up.

“Okay, she’s got about ten guards with her, and she’s roundin’ the bend now,” Uncle tells you all, and he grabs a worn, red scarf from his saddlebag, “Get yer faces covered!”

Going to your satchel, you remember the neckerchief that Arthur had given you for the train robbery having been placed inside. The black fabric greets you as you pull it out, taking it and placing it over your face and covering your mouth as it rests along the bridge of your nose. The other men do the same, grabbing onto their respective bandanas and placing it over their faces as Uncle peeks over the crest of the hill.

“She’s comin’ up the way... On my mark, we leave on three, with guns at the ready,” he takes a deep breath, “Now, we just take out the guards or anyone who tries to take us out first. Ain’t no need to go killin’ everyone.”

“Why, Uncle, you ruin all the fun,” Micah snickers.

Uncle doesn’t give Micah the time of day, now gripping onto his Saddler’s reins to ready himself for their onslaught. You notice then, though, that Micah doesn’t cover his face, smirking wickedly as he readies his two Colts.

“One...”

You swallow, readying D’or with one hand as you grab onto your carbine with the other.

“Two...”

Taima lifts her head a bit, shifting as Charles eyes narrow, and he grips onto his sawed-off shotgun tightly.

“Three!”

The group moves, sweeping over the hill and coming over it as the stagecoach passes by. The guards shout, taking in the sudden appearance of you all before brandishing their Colts to fire.

“Shoot the bastards!”

D’or neighs from underneath you, moving slightly as a bullet whizzes past. But your gun is already at the ready as you let her run without your guidance, your carbine already raised and firing at the man who had aimed your way.

The bullet pierces into him, dropping the man without hesitation as his Morgan rides on further without him, spooked as it splits off from everything to run into the woods.

Charles, who had moved more to the left of you, has already fired, hitting one guard with the scattered spit of his shotgun. The shot sprays across him, causing the man and his horse to shriek as he falls off of the saddle, his neck making a sickening crack as he lands onto the ground. His horse, now bleeding in a few places from the shot, stumbles as well, falling over as Charles rushes past to keep pace with the wagon.

You curse, the sound of your voice muffled, both from the neckerchief obscuring half of your face, but also by the swamping sound of the ensuing firefight.

Micah, who is armed with both of his Colts, fires multiple times into one man, the bullets piercing through his chest and his neck, causing blood to spatter and mist his gray horse as he lets out a gurgled noise of agony. Micah’s lips are split in an eerie grin as Baylock carries him forth, especially as the man takes aim at another guard who attempts to break off and abandon the wagon and the fight occurring over it.

He gets as far as the tree line before a bullet rips into his skull, shattering bone and the man’s intents on escaping. Your stomach lurches as the guard’s now limp body falls to the ground with a sickening thump, only to be followed by Micah laughing manically a few feet away from you.

“That’ll teach ya to turn yellow!” he hisses.

You lower your carbine, gripping onto D’or’s reins as Micah’s eyes shift to you.

The look in them is downright inhuman, a type of rage that you have never quite seen. His brown eyes, they lack any warmth — any humanity. All you can see is cold hunger there, an insatiable desire for blood as Micah clenches his teeth as he smiles at you.

Your reaction is instinctual, and you pull back on D’or’s reins, making the Trotter slow down just enough for you to break off. You can feel Micah’s eyes on you still until you are able to pull around the other side of the stagecoach, and out of his view.

Despite being out of sight of the man, you can hear him laugh once more, his guns firing obscenely into the few guards that remain.

Charles looks back to you, eyes narrowing on you as he takes in your paled skin, and the slight tremor in your hands.

“Get the driver!” Bill shouts angrily, coming up from behind you, “We either stop the wagon, or we’re gonna go straight into Rhodes with it!”

“Shit!”

The driver is terrified, looking about himself to take in how he is now surrounded by you and the others, and he lets out a pitiful noise, the kind that you have heard an animal make once it knew it was done for before he is shot dead by Micah.

He slumps over, blood running down his arm to drip onto the dirt below as the drafts pulling the stagecoach keep running out of fear.

“Goddamit! They’re spooked!” Charles yells, “We need to get them to stop!”

“Pull in front of them!” you hear Arthur say, “Give ‘em a reason to!”

You see Charles spur Taima more, the Appaloosa pulling forward as he and Sean come up in front of the drafts. The massive horses begin to slow, shifting and fearful as Sean and Charles force them to slow, and the stagecoach screeches to a halt behind them.

The wheels dig into the dirt before it lurches, the metal of its chasse cracking threateningly as it shudders from the abrupt halt, and the drafts cry, trying to rear despite all of the harnessings that encases them in their places.

“Quick! Let’s get this money, and get gone!” Uncle instructs.

Now that the wagon is stalled, you can take more of it in as Bill hops off of Brown Jack to approach the back end of the red stagecoach, and to the metal lockbox that was apparently the cause of all of this trouble.

Frowning, you take in the painted lettering on the side of the wagon, and you curse, just as you had done with the train.

Arthur does the same from beside you, cursing under his breath before he yanks down his bandana.

“Uncle, you god damn idiot!”

“What?” Uncle comes over on Nell II, frowning.

“This is Cornwall’s coach!” Arthur seethes.

The old man takes in the painted calligraphy on the side of the wagon and frowns, shaking his head, “I— I didn’t know, Arthur! The lead just said it was a stagecoach! It didn’t say who owned it!”

“Too god damn late now!” Arthur throws his hand up into the air, “We already done robbed the damn thing!”

“Oh Arthur, get your panties out of a twist,” Micah huffs as he comes across the front of the stagecoach, “It ain’t a big deal.”

“Ain’t a big deal?” Arthur echoes, and he maneuvers his Walker to where he can face the other man, “Do you not understand how bad this is? Cornwall is out for us just as much as the Pinkertons are! He shot up ‘bout half of Valentine over us!”

Micah rolls his eyes, “And? That’s supposed to intimidate me?”

“It should! That man can afford an army if he wants one, and the Pinkertons are apparently more than happy to work with him to get to us,” Arthur snaps, “You’re a god damn idiot if you don’t realize that messin’ with that man is like playin’ with fire!”

There’s a distinct metallic snap, and you hear a dull thud in the dirt behind you. From the back of the wagon, Bill leans over to regard you all.

“Enough bitchin’, I got the damn thing open! Let’s take what we came for and get gone!”

“Funny, Alden said this would be a lot harder,” Uncle mutters as he rubs at his chin.

Angrily, Arthur looks at Uncle, “He said _what_ now?”

“Oh, well, the way Alden put it, he said that this stagecoach shoulda been guarded like nothin’ else,” the old man comments, sniffing, “But only ten guards?”

Frowning, Charles pulls down his bandana, looking between the old man and the outlaw, “Maybe his intel was wrong.”

“Shouldn’t be. He and his _colleuges if discouraged men_ as he likes to call ‘em, they work the railway system, usually up in the stations. They know all about what comes n’ goes, even if it ain’t on a train... This here stagecoach was supposed to go into Rhodes. Said there was a few bonds that Cornwall was shipping upstate.”

“Looks like that was right,” Bill says, and he holds up a few sheets of paper, “Seems like there are a few here, worth a thousand or so each.”

Micah whistles, holstering one of his Colts to grip onto his gun belt, “Pretty penny, that is.”

“Oi, boys! We’re gonna be rich!” Sean grins from ear to ear then.

“I wouldn’t celebrate just yet... Money like that isn’t left to just ten guards. Not with Cornwall havin’ been robbed so much recently. ‘Specially by us,” Arthur states, and his eyes narrow on Uncle, “Did Alden say how much heat it was gonna have on it?”

From down the road, you can hear the sound of men shouting, and your stomach drops as you see about two dozen men ride up from the end of the road, where the trees had once hidden their impending arrival.

“Shit!”

“Apparently a lot,” Charles mutters.

“Quick! We gotta get the hell outta here!” Arthur looks to Bill, “Just leave what you don’t already have!”

Bill curses, his satchel hitting his side awkwardly from where it has been stuffed to the gills alongside his hip. You can see that the lockbox is still full, and now, Bill has to abandon it. The man doesn’t look happy as he saddles up onto Brown Jack, face scrunched with irritation at the loss.

“Come on, we gotta lose ‘em!”

You all spur your horses into a gallop, then men coming up behind you as the sun beats down on you overhead. It’s started to sink lower in the sky as you ride in the direction of Mattock Pond, and you curse as Arthur and Charles come up on your sides.

“Hey, it looks like there’s a house up ahead!” Uncle states, pointing, “We could ride a bit further and break off through the trees here just long enough to confuse those bastards, and we can hide up there!”

“And if the family has any complaints on that plan?” Charles asks.

“Listen, we’ll just go about as we can!” Uncle insists.

You do as Uncle suggested, riding a bit further until the road curves just enough for all of you to get out of eyesight of the men chasing you, and you break off into the trees. D’or works hard underneath you, nostrils flaring as she climbs up the incline and to where you see an old barn ahead. The weeds snap at your thighs as D’or breathes roughly underneath you, and you look over as Arthur whistles briefly to get everyone’s attention.

“We get up there, and we ditch our horses,” Arthur instructs, “We’re gonna hide in the barn, for the meantime.”

You swallow thickly as you reach the barn, hopping off of D’or as soon as you’re clear of the trees. Everyone dismounts alongside you, and you hear the men smack their horses to get them to run away. You look at D’or, her ears flattened and eyes wide, and you coax her.

“Go on girl, I’ll get back to ya, okay?”

D’or rumbles, stamping her foot once out of a rejection of the concept before she relents, seeming to understand what you ask of her as you give her a soft push. She goes into a quick trot, heading in the direction of the other horses as you feel a hand pull you into the barn.

“Come on! We gotta hide!”

It’s Arthur, of all people, and you take a deep breath as Charles shuts the door once you have been pulled inside.

Arthur’s hand feels like a lump of hot coal against your skin for the split second that it holds onto you, but just like being burned, the man lets go quickly, placing his hand back at his side as quickly as it came while Charles slides the board along the door into place.

Behind you, Bill collapses onto the barn floor, the man seemingly uncaring for the musky hay he lays about in. He’s opened his gray and blue flannel shirt about four buttons, exposing the sweaty and hairy skin of his chest as he pants, taking off his pinned hat and revealing his bald scalp so he can run a hand over it.

“Jesus,” the man grunts, and he looks to Uncle then, lip pouted out in anger, “This is the last time we help you with any job.”

“Think I’d have to agree,” Sean states, “You kinda bugged this one up, old man.”

“Now, that really ain’t any way to go about it,” Uncle grumbles, “How was I supposed to know it was Cornwall’s stagecoach?”

“Listen, we’re not going to get into this right now... We need to stay quiet, and hopefully wait out these men as they look around for us,” Charles starts, stepping away from the door, “If we’re lucky, we can sneak out come nightfall without any issue.”

Micah snorts, looking to Charles doubtfully, “And if there’s an issue?”

“Then we take care of it,” Charles says, not buckling under Micah’s sneer, “But like I said, for now, we just gotta wait, and stay quiet.”

Frowning, you see Charles take up the opposite end of the barn from Micah, and you sigh, moving past Arthur to join him.

Arthur makes a small noise, and you go to sit next to Charles.

Bill currently pulls out his gun, opting to clean the thing as Sean goes over to Arthur, beckoning him over to the wall of the barn between you and Bill, and Arthur ends up settling in the corner with him.

Micah decides to sleep, taking his khaki hat and placing it over his face to block out the sun that is cast down from the window above him. It’s nice, not to have to see him, and you let out a breath as Charles glances at you.

“You okay?” he asks you again, quiet, “You seemed pretty shaken during the stagecoach robbery.”

“It was Micah,” you murmur back as you hear Sean struggle to lower his voice to your side, “He... He seemed to be enjoyin’ himself a little too much...”

Humming, Charles nods, leaning back against the gray wood of the barn at his back as he crosses his arms over his chest, “Arthur told me about how he acted in Strawberry... Doesn’t seem to surprise me.”

“I’ve never seen him outside of camp,” you say under your breath, “I... I had no idea he was like this...”

“What did he do?”

“He killed one of the guards that was just tryna run away... said it was what he deserved for bein’ scared,” you grip at your arms, frowning, “But with everyone else he was just... he killed ‘em like this was personal. One guy alone got about eight bullets in his chest before he was done.”

Charles’ scowl is deep as he looks to where Micah rests across from you both, his chest lightly falling and rising with his breaths, face obscured by his hat.

“He has always had a pretty dark mean streak in him. It’s like he relishes the chaos of it. The blood, the death,” Charles whispers to you, “Like with the ferry robbery... It’s like he wanted it to go wrong. Like he wanted us to get into a shoot-out with the Pinkertons. I told you, back in Colter, he used a damned lantern when we were comin’ in at dusk... I burned my hand tryin’ to snuff it out, but it gave us away despite my effort otherwise.”

Remembering that conversation, you breathe, shaking your head, “Why would he need to use a lantern, anyway? He should’ve known it would be too much of a risk to use.”

“I told Dutch about it, but he wrote it off. He said it was just an honest mistake.”

Scoffing quietly, you pick up your satchel from where it lays by your hip on the ground, “Ain’t nothin’ honest about that man. I have no doubts about that.”

“And I have a suspicion that it wasn’t a mistake,” Charles admits to you then, and you stall in your movements as the man at your side continues, “But then again, I just have a lot of suspicions.”

“And rightfully so,” you concede, and you open your satchel, removing a box of oatcakes form your satchel, “I don’t trust him.”

“Me either...”

Upon opening the box, you hand one to Charles, and the man takes it as he notes all of the sheets of paper lining your satchel.

“Say, what’s all that for?”

“Letter,” you state, grabbing yourself an oatcake as you settle against the wall, “For my mother.”

Scowling, Charles tilts his head, “Thought she was dead...”

“Turns out she ain’t... It’s a long story,” you murmur, and you take a small bite of your oatcake, chewing it absently.

“Sounds like it,” Charles whispers, “How’d you find out?”

“Trapper in the area. New my father before he met my mother and they moved out to Tall Trees. He asked about her, and turns out I’d heard of her in a way I didn’t expect.”

Charles raises a brow, “Which was?”

“Ever heard of the Black Belle?”

Charles whistles, and a slight grin works its way onto his face, “The Black Belle? Really?”

You go into your satchel once more, opening one of the internal pockets to remove the grainy photo that Theodore Levin had given you back in Valentine.

You pass it over to Charles, and he hums, taking in the photo of your mother in her black dress, her engraved carbine at her side.

“Shit... I can see the resemblance,” the man hands the photo back to you, “Kinda makes sense though... You’re a hell of a shot.”

“Guess that’s why my dad never wanted me to pick up a gun,” you joke, looking at the photo of your mother with a solemn smile for just a moment, and once it passes, you sigh, placing it back into your satchel, “Like mother like daughter, they say.”

“The world is small and strange, despite all that they say otherwise,” Charles breathes.

You lean back against the wall, humming as your eyes slip shut, “Oh, that it indeed is...”

 

**\---**

You’re not sure how much time has passed by the point of when you come to, but it’s dark out, and the crickets are chirping around you and the others as you hear frantic whispering.

The hand that had woken you up shakes you again, and your eyes adjust to the dark as you sit forward some, taking in the silhouette of Arthur in front of you.

Blinking, your brain is yanked from its fog, and you take in a sharp breath.

“What’s happening?” you ask.

“Cornwall’s men, they’re here. They‘re lookin’ for us,” Arthur whispers lowly to you as your eyes adjust to looking through the window across the way, taking in the sight of the house some yards off and where the men with lanterns are questioning the owner at their door, “We’re probably gonna have to fight our way outta this.”

Groaning slightly as you sit up, you curse, pulling at the strap of your carbine until the gun meets your hands.

“’Course we do.”

A small wall juts out by the main door that Charles had barricaded, and behind it, you can see the man, looking out between two boards that have a gap separating them. Beside him is Sean, already ready with his Colt, and behind him, in the corner, is Uncle. Bill is by the barricaded main door, cursing under his breath as he loads his freshly clean gun in the dark.

As for Micah, he has taken a spot up by the right wall of the barn, looking through more uneven spaces between the wood and out to where more men arrive. You can see them yourself, the orange light of their lanterns drawing your focus to them as they ride upon their horses, calling out to each other.

“Well?” one of them shouts to the men at the homeowner’s door.

“They say they haven’t seen anything!”

“Well, they didn’t get far, and we will upturn over every stone if we have to!” the man on the brown Walker shouts, “Check the barn!”

“Shit,” Arthur moves from where he has crouched beside you, and he pulls his repeater from over his shoulder, “Looks like we’re in for it.”

“Everyone, hide as best you can! They’re gonna find us, but we need to try and get the jump on ‘em!” Charles instructs.

You don’t expect Arthur’s hand on you, but the man grabs you as he did to pull you into the barn, taking you over to the wall that blocks off the small door the Charles moves away from as the man starts to approach. Uncle also darts, moving in the very back corner that you had just been asleep in, and you can see the fear in the old man’s eyes as you pass one another.

Arthur’s calloused fingers are tight on your wrist as he takes up the spot by the end of the wall, peeking out from it to look and watch the men as they near the barn. Sean and Charles allocate themselves as best as they possibly can, and you can feel your pulse race against the press of Arthur’s fingertips.

The outlaw lets go as the men get to the door, his hand leaving your skin to perch itself upon his repeater as the wood ominously creaks back, and the barn is illuminated the orange glow of their lanterns.

“See anything?”

You look through a small hole in the board of wood in front of you, your now free hand moving to the barrel of your carbine as the man scans the inside, for what little he can see.

“Not much... I’ll have to walk in.”

Micah will be the first in his sights as he steps inside, and your heart races as the warm light of the lanterns begin to illuminate the man’s face.

And it’s then that you see it — that god damn manic grin.

But before Micah can act upon his discovery, Arthur acts first. The butt of his repeater hits the man in the back of the head, knocking him unconscious as he falls onto the barn floor. The other man rushes in behind him, seeing his companion lying in the old hay below, with Arthur moving his gun back into position.

“They’re here—”

A shot rings out, and you see Micah glare, lowering his smoking Colt as he hisses at Arthur while Cornwall’s men jump into action.

“What the hell cowpoke! That first one was mine!”

“I was unaware that we were callin’ dibs,” Arthur growls, and you jolt as you hear and _feel_ the first of the bullets beginning to spray the outer shell of the barn.

“Oh, shut the hell up! We’re firin’ back now, what does it matter?” Bill snaps, knocking a few loose boards out of the way to aim the barrel of his gun through them, “I say kill all the bastards! Dibs on bein’ the ones that live through this!”

“Big boy’s gotta point!” Sean perks up as he knocks out the window beside him, leaning against the wall as a shower of glass cascades down onto him, and he looks up, smirking, “I’d rather be the one gettin' to brag afterward!”

“Oh just fuckin’ shoot at ‘em and shut up, will ya!” Arthur barks, and he moves to the opposite side of the barn as men ride up the way.

“Wolf, come help me from this end!”

Your attention moves to where Uncle is in the corner by himself, brandishing his pitiful Colt as you see a group of men round the back of the barn.

Cursing, you head over, sliding through the dirt right as a bullet pierces through the wood where you were once hiding. You let out a shrill breath, and your eyes move up, taking stock of the expression Arthur makes as he realizes you hadn’t been there as he thought when the bullet came flying through.

“I’m alright!” you shout to him.

The man nods once before going back, shoving his repeater’s back through the wall to fire back at Cornwall’s men.

You do the same, aiming your carbine and firing. You drop three of the men in quick succession, and Uncle whistles as he goes to reload his Colt.

“Damn, woman, you can fire!”

“Only when I need to!” you tell him, and you fire another shot, cracking through a man’s neck and dropping him as quickly as can be, “Now hurry, I gotta reload soon myself!”

“Right on it!”

The old man clicks his Colt back together, spinning the chamber until it situates itself and he can go back to firing.

Uncle takes over, shooting at the men who round the back of the barn, and you quickly dip your hand down to your belt, popping open your carbine’s chamber to reload your ammo into it.

“How many of these fucks are there?” Sean cries as he drops down, huffing as the wood splinters from a bullet hitting it beside him.

“I told you, Cornwall can afford an army!” Arthur grits out, also falling back behind the wall, “It seems like he budgeted for one this time!”

“Jesus, we never shoulda crossed this man in the first place!” Bill shouts, and he growls as he takes in the arrival of even more henchmen, “Looks like there’s only more!”

“Burn those god damn rats out!” the man on the Morgan screeches, taking a lantern and eyeing the barn wildly, “I want every last one of them dead by the end of this!”

Your hand shakes as you get your carbine pieced back together, and Uncle looks to you gravely as Charles yells to you all.

“We gotta get outta here! They’re gonna set this place on fire!”

“And where are we gonna go, genius?” Micah asks mockingly, “To the other house?”

“No, we should cut through the woods. It’s dark out, we can lose ‘em!”

You hear the damning sound of shattering glass, and Micah coughs, snarling as the corner of the barn he was standing in erupts into flames. Thankfully, the last man that was running up on your end of the barn falls with a well-placed shot from Uncle, and you send a small thanks that it seems there’s some luck to be had by you all.

“Come on, move!”

You stand as everyone files to the barricaded door, and with Arthur and Charles’ help, you three lift the board from the slats, tossing it behind you to kick the door open.

“Split up!” Charles tells you all, “We’ll break off in groups of two or three, lead them apart and get them lost in those woods! If we stay low n’ quiet, we might lose ‘em!”

Without hesitation, Arthur moves to you.

“Wolf, you’re comin’ with me,” Arthur states, and you have no spine in you at the moment to object.

Not even as Sean approaches.

“Can I loop up wit’ ya?”

“Just come on!”

You watch as Uncle goes with Charles, and Bill takes to Micah, the two duos breaking off and scattering out into the woods as Arthur leads you and Sean in another direction.

Behind you, the barn is soon swarmed in flames, the fire roaring as Cornwall’s men whoop and laugh darkly. It’s ominous to see and hear as you slink off into the darkness and shelter of the trees, the trunks drawing thick, blank lines over the blaze of the barn now some yards behind you.

“Stay low, and stay quiet,” Arthur instructs, lowering himself to a near crouch then, with you and Sean mirroring the man, “The last thing we want is to give ourselves away.”

“Gotcha boss,” Sean whispers.

You only nod, and Arthur waves for you to follow.

Trekking the uneven land is tricky, especially as you attempt to muffle your footsteps. It’s hard, both to keep them from being audible on the leaves and other foliage below, while also trying to maintain proper footing without falling or nastily twisting your ankle in the process. You have to lean on trees, nearly stumbling about their gnarled roots as Cornwall’s men shout from near the barn, and as your heart picks up its tempo, hitting against your ribs like a mallet to a drum, you know that they are about to begin the chase anew.

Finding a clearing, Arthur’s eyes frantically search within the dark for anything that may prove useful to you three. And what he finds is a good growth of bushes, and Arthur motions for you and Sean to take up behind him once more.

The outlaw shoves the branches apart, beckoning quickly with his hand for you both to come inside. Sean goes first, disappearing into the thicket without issue before Arthur’s eyes shift to you.

“Come on, Wolf,” he says, his drawl a low rumble with his hushed, insistent whisper.

The shouting of the men grows in volume, as does their footfalls as they crash into the woods. Forgoing their lanterns now that they have set the barn behind them on fire. You can only hear them nearly, and you feel frozen in place as you see Arthur’s face draw up. Only a few seconds have passed, but it feels like a lifetime within them, especially as you hear Arthur mutter a soft curse.

To your surprise, the man grabs you once more, pulling you into the bush and falling back with you inside of it. The leaves fall back into place, covering the spot where Arthur had peeled them back to gain entry inside of its growths. You and Arthur are just about lying on the ground on one another, with Arthur’s back pressed against the cold soil below, and you laying on top of him.

You still, pressed against Arthur’s chest and tucked tightly against him as one of Cornwall’s men crashes into the clearing.

Arthur’s chest is a solid weight underneath you as the man breathes, his eyes not looking at you, but the man that swings his shotgun wildly about the clearing, obviously listening or looking for any sign of you as he walks slowly about the space.

“They here?” his partner shouts to him, arriving in the space as Arthur’s grip on your wrist tightens further.

“I’m sure they are. They couldn’t have gotten far, not with the terrain like it is...”

The other man brandishes a repeater, bringing it up and aiming about the clearing as his partner does as they circle around it, each taking the opposite direction as they search for you all. The cluster of overgrown bushes lay in the middle, and you feel like your body is trying its hardest to imitate a statue as you follow the men, your heart racing as you follow one man, and Arthur follows the other.

Beside you, Sean bites his lips, and you can see how he calculates the situation as his hand moves at an astronomically slow pace to his belt.

Narrowing your eyes, you take in what the man plans to do, with the slight glint of the throwing knives at his belt catching your attention as the two men meet at the opposite end of the clearing.

“They’re here. I can practically smell their god damn sweat,” the first one seethes.

Before anyone can do anything else, however, there’s the sound of a stick cracking to the man’s side, and he instantly fires.

You can help but jump, a sound of surprise nearly escaping you had it not been for Arthur letting go of your wrist to cover your mouth. It’s thankfully muffled by the shot also ringing out into the air, and your eyes jerk to meet Arthur’s as your exhale from your nose heats the digits of his pointer finger.

Arthur places one finger over his lips, and you swallow thickly as a squirrel runs out from the shrubs the man had fired at out of sheer panic.

“It was just a god damn squirrel, Benedict,” his partner says out of critique, “Really, you gotta start thinkin’ before you shoot—”

The man’s words are cut off as a knife lands into his throat, slicing through the skin and quickly causing his words to turn into a muffled gurgle. Beside him, his partner, Benedict, does not far much better, with the man feeling his back from where the knife landed into it, turning his gray jacket dark from blood in the moonlight. His shock is apparent, turning around to where Sean stands up from the bush, his second knife already aimed at the man as his partner slumps to the forest floor below.

The second knife lands into Benedict with a sickening sense of precision, hitting the man in his eye and dropping him in a matter of seconds as Sean lets out a tense breath.

“Jesus...” Arthur mutters.

Realizing your placement, you pull back from Arthur as he had done in the barn, your removal quick and succinct.

The man eyes you oddly, a slight frown working onto his lips as you stand, exiting the bush as Sean does.

“Guess it does pay to learn how ta throw darts at the bar,” Sean jests to you with a smirk, “And here my da told me that it would never amount to nuttin’!”

“You saved us,” you state, looking to Sean and murmuring, “Thank you...”

“Ah, it was nuttin’, really!” he beams, “It’s all in da wrist I tell ya!”

His celebration is cut short by another ring of gunfire further off in the thicket of trees, and your gut sinks as you hear shouting in the distance.

“Come on, we ain’t outta the woods yet...” Arthur growls.

Taking his repeater, the outlaw goes forth, holding his gun as you all head in the direction of the newest firefight. You can hear Uncle and Charles shouting amongst the gunfire, and you three pick up your pace as you hear the struggle grow clearer and clearer as you near.

“You ain’t gettin' any of us, you stupid bastards!” you hear Uncle shout into the fray, and you spot the man in the darkness, hiding against a tree as the opposing side of the trunk is littered with bullets.

Lifting his gun, you see Arthur take aim at one of Cornwall’s men who is adding to the mess. He fires once, quick and without any hesitation, and the shot hits the man at the shoulder, clipping him and causing him to shout as he drops his weapon.

“’Bout damn time you showed up!” Uncle says as he sees you all come upon his predicament.

“We left you alone for all but five minutes, and this is what you dredge up on yourself?” Arthur asks accusingly, “I thought the goal was to sneak off n’ stay low!”

Defensive, Uncle glowers, “Yeah, well, plans can change!”

Darting off to the left, a few bullets hitting the ground and causing handfuls of dirt to fly in the air, Arthur fires back with, “With you headin’ ‘em, I’m sure!”

You crack a shot into one of Cornwall’s men that came sprinting through the trees, crumple as he crashes into the forest floor. Once he’s down, you fall back, hiding behind a large sycamore and trying to level yourself in the chaos.

The gun smoke from the end of your carbine is acidic in your lungs as you take a deep breath, eyes shifting to where Sean braces himself against a neighboring tree, looking gleeful for the current situation as he looks to you.

“Better than Dutch botherin’ ya, am I right, Wolf?”

Hearing Sean, you hear Arthur’s question from your left.

“Dutch is botherin’ ya?”

“Don’t you think there’s a better time for this!?” you shout, shooting the outlaw an exasperated look, “We’re literally gettin' shot at right now!”

Dropping another man with a quick shot, Arthur quickly moves back to his cover behind his own appropriated trunk, his frown evident even in the dark as he regards you, “You can just say yes or no.”

You make a face and a noise of frustration, and you drop another man that advances down the hillside to where you all are now propped and positioned.

At your apparent disapproval, the Irishman to your right laughs, loud and boisterous amongst the echoes of your current bombardment.

“We have firefight conversations all da time, Wolf!” Sean all but trills, his eyes alight with amusement and as fiery as his red hair in the moonlight, “It’s the best time for honesty! Ain’t nothin’ brings out da truth like a rain of bullets!”

“Still think there’s a proper time n’ place for it!”

“And why ain’t that now?” Arthur asks.

“Do I really have to explain why?” annoyance bleeds through your words like the crimson soaking through the clothes of the growing number of Cornwall’s downed men, “For fuck’s sake!”

From your side, Sean looks past you, taking a quick pop out into the clearing before leaning back to look at Arthur, shouting, “Dutch has been harassin’ Wolf here about bein’ a harlot for hire!”

You can see the way that Arthur’s eyes darken upon Sean’s words.

“A _what—_ ”

“It ain’t like that!” you huff, firing and clipping two men.

“Oh, it ain’t? Wolf here was tellin’ Charles before we rode out that Dutch asked that she gussy herself up to sway the Grays prodigal son for information! It ain’t really far off from what ya told me!”

Arthur growls, firing five shots in quick succession and dropping another group of men as you hear additional shouting down the hillside.

“It really ain’t then,” Arthur snarls.

“Listen, I told him nothin’ like that is happenin’, so can we _please_ focus on makin’ it out alive!?”

Uncle looks back to you both, frowning, “But I was enjoyin’ the conversation—”

In unison, the three of you shout, “Shut up, Uncle!”

The old man mutters as the last one of Cornwall’s man is stopped prematurely in his advance towards you and the others.

Sighing, you aim your head somewhat in Arthur’s direction, hearing more gunfire down the way.

You frown as you all regroup, “They must’ve gotten caught too.”

“Hey, I didn’t get caught!” Uncle grimaces, “They just caught up to me.”

“Sure they did,” Arthur breathes roughly through his nose, and you can sense the tension rolling off the man, “Where’s Charles?”

“He got ahead of me. You know me n’ my back, it just—”

“ _Come on,_ ” the outlaw instructs without room for argument.

Uncle joins you, and together, you all head further, towards the Kamassa River.

The moon hangs in the sky, nearly a little over half full and illuminating the way as you all trek through the underbrush. You can see the occasional spark of light amidst the trees, the telltale flash of a gun as it fires into the night.

“Jesus, you boys really seemed to piss this man off,” Uncle mutters as you reach a small decline, causing your posse to slow, “Just how did you slight him?”

“Honestly, the better question to ask would be how we _haven’t,_ ” Arthur grumbles, assessing the ground in front of him.

The land jutting down harshly in an almost vertical fashion for at least two and a half or so before you, and Arthur is the first to go down. He jumps, landing on the ground with a solid thump as he glances back to you all, raising a brow.

“Well?”

Sean jumps without pause, landing beside Arthur and almost getting a bounce in his step as he pushes past the outlaw, running to where the fight ensues some yards away. As Sean disappears into the trees, Uncle makes a mighty face as he looks to the drop.

“Uh,” he starts, “Listen, I’m an old man, and I—”

“I’ll help you down,” you tell him.

Arthur rolls his eyes lightly, shaking his head, “Wolf, you ain’t gotta. The man’s fine. He just likes to pretend that he can’t keep up, but he can.”

You set the man with a light glare, “Arthur, shut up, please.”

“Ya! You heard your woman!” Uncle bleats.

Pausing, you look at Uncle, “’Scuse me?”

The man pauses, looking to you and frowning, “What? You’s his right—”

“You know, it really isn’t that steep,” you say suddenly, and you don’t jump as Arthur or Sean did, instead you use your arm and bracing yourself against the exposed orange dirt of the drop, navigating it with ease. Now standing on next to Arthur, you smile at Uncle.

“Well, come on.”

Uncle frowns, looking rather sour as he mumbles a quick protest before speaking up, “Ya know, you two are perfect for one another.”

“Careful Uncle, Wolf might just push ya.”

Snorting, you shake your head, “Now I won’t do that. Maybe.”

“Cruel, you two! I’m just an old man, weathered in my years!” Uncle says as he finishes lowering himself, groaning dramatically and holding his back as though he’d been shot, “You just have to go n’ make things worse!”

Arthur pats Uncle’s shoulder endearingly before pulling away, “Listen, told you in Valentine, you’s my third favorite parasite! You think that doesn’t mean anythin’?”

You laugh as Uncle grimace grows just a fraction, “To me, it doesn’t.”

“Well, chin up, old man,” Arthur turns, now walking in the direction of the firefight that seems to somewhat be dying down, “If you pout too hard, your back will really hurt.”

Uncle mutters something under his breath, but you shoot him a small smile, which only seems to lighten the man a tiny bit before you pivot to join Arthur in his approach.

You end up by his side, carbine in hand as Arthur reloads his repeater. The air between you two is fissuring in some way, but not violently or in the way it was before you had taken up in that barn to hide from Cornwall’s men. It feels different somehow, almost like a cramp finally letting go.

Unsure of what to think about the shift, you focus on the matter at hand, eyes finding Charles and the others in the dark.

Bill is covered in dirt, his torn-up jeans more so than his poor plaid shirt, and you can tell by the smudges on his palms and elbows that the man had taken a nasty fall here in the dark, especially as he moves with a slight limp. It does nothing for his mood, and he seems to be firing his shotgun with all the menace he can pack into every trigger pull.

Micah, on the other hand, seems just as he was when he parted ways with you, but only entertained by the ordeal overall. He’s still got that unsettling look about him as he empties both chambers of his Colts gladly into the dark, each shot aimed with precision and malice as it cuts into the few remaining hands of Cornwall’s men.

In fact, Micah is to drop the last three, firing and hitting all three like flies being swatted in quick succession, and he smirks devilishly before bringing his Colt barrels close to his mouth to blow away the gun smoke emitted from their ends.

As you gather by Charles and Sean, Micah twirls his Colts on his pointer fingers until he holsters them both at his side, the slaughtering of Cornwall’s men seeming to put wind into his sails as he swaggers over to you all, yellow teeth bared in a feral smirk, especially as his eyes move to you.

“See boys?” he boasts, “That’s how a real man handles things.”

“Oh, I wasn’t even lookin’,” Sean smarts off, making Micah’s grin falter in an almost unhinged manner, “I don’t think I even missed anythin’, to be truthful to ya.”

Micah snarls, stomping forward until his finger points into Sean’s chest. The Irishman doesn’t falter under Micah’s focused rage; in fact, he seems to relish in riling the man up so much by piquing him, his own lips quirking with levity.

“You’re a god damn brat!” Micah seethes, “You haven’t even done a damn respectable thing in your life!”

“Oh, and you have, ya oily turd? Last I heard, ya ‘bout killed all of Strawberry just ‘cause ya lost those beloved guns of yours—”

“ _Enough!”_

Charles inserts himself between Micah and Sean. However, he braces Micah away from Sean, practically shoving Micah away from the Irishman and glaring in Sean’s direction.

Micah huffs, breathing wildly as his eyes darken, “You fuckin’ half-breed—”

“Micah, if you say one more god damn thing, I’m gonna be bringin’ your body back to Dutch,” Arthur steps towards the man, his shoulder squared as he looks Micah in his eyes.

“You could never kill me, Arthur,” Micah says, grinning maniacally, “We’re brothers!”

“Funny. To you, I don’t think that means shit.”

“Oh, now, there’s no reason to be like that.”

“There ain’t no reason for you to be goin’ around as you are, neither,” Arthur huffs, “We’re done here. You’ve had your blaze of glory just like you did in Strawberry. Good for you. But we gotta head back to camp, ‘specially if the law comes ‘round. Dutch made it clear we can’t make a fuss in Rhodes.”

Pouting, Micah snips, “What harm did a little bit of fuss bring anyone?”

“Oh, shut it, Micah.”

“You know, you wear that badge, but it don’t mean that you gotta uphold what it means. In fact, you kinda stand for the opposite side of the law.”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur shakes his head, “Someone probably overheard this shoot out of ours, and bein’ so close to camp, that ain’t a good thing. I wouldn’t be surprised if the law props up soon on us.”

Stepping forward, Charles frowns, “I’m sure they will. We’re not too far from Rhodes, and who knows if Cornwall’s men spoke to the law about the stagecoach or if a townsperson heard us.”

“We need to get back to camp, and fast.”

Scoffing, Micah voices his doubts, “And how do you expect us to clear out of here n’ get there, cowpoke?”

“I mean, we always got our feet at the end of the day,” Arthur tells him, “Our horses probably went back to camp, but we may be able to grab some that have been left by Cornwall’s men if we’re lucky.”

“Only one way to find out,” Charles murmurs, and he turns, heading southwest in the direction of camp.

Behind you, Uncle pouts, rubbing at his back.

“I’m prayin’ that there’s a coach for us to take this time.”

“Oh, after this, I hope I never have to deal wit’ you findin’ a stagecoach again, old man,” Sean bites.

“Cruel! You’re all just cruel!”

“And your back hurts,” Arthur says as you all file into an odd sort of line, “What’s new?”

“Oh! I’ll tell ya!”

Uncle then begins to go on a slight rant, discussing his supposed hardships in the gang as you and Arthur fall to the back. Sean and Uncle are ahead of you, with Bill and Micah taking up the spot behind Charles as he leads the way.

You two end up falling a few feet back, just far enough to maintain some form of privacy from distance without dethatching yourself from the group.

That fissuring from before is there, and you fix your carbine over your shoulder as Arthur does with his repeater, and you both look ahead, unable to gaze upon the other as you walk in silence side by side.

Now that the gunfight has settled, the crickets and cicadas slowly come back from their silence, one by one, until a small chorus as picked up into the hair like the faint smell of gunpowder and smoke on the wind. It shifts the grass under your feet, alongside the trees overhead as you pace yourself with Arthur.

After walking a few moments with him, and hearing Sean’s embellishing laugh from in front of you as he goes to dig into poor Uncle yet again, you hear Arthur clear his throat lightly, and your eyes briefly shift to their corners to glance at him before they refocus to the world in front of you.

“So...” he starts, but he doesn’t finish, growing quiet once more.

“So,” you echo, voice a little hollow and quiet to your own ears.

Arthur takes a second or two to find his tongue, and when he does, you can hear how unsure he is of your current attempt at this conversation.

“You... You did well back there.”

“And you as well,” you say a little curtly.

Arthur coughs, and you swallow thickly as you look at the other gang members ahead of you.

“I... I just wanna let you know,” his voice softens, and your hands clench at your sides as you listen to him, “I wouldn’t have come along if I knew you were gonna be here.”

The statement throws you, and you can’t help it. You look to Arthur, brow pinched. But the outlaw doesn’t face you, head somewhat hanging as he looks to the ground and where his boots work across it, folding the blades of grass with each step just as each word has pleated him with his confidence.

“It was a sudden thing,” you tell him, “I agreed to get outta camp for a while...”

“’Cause of Dutch,” Arthur murmurs.

Sighing, you turn your head forward once more, “Yes and no. I mean, mostly, at the time, but... I’ve felt rather suffocated the last week and a half... I just wanted... wanted to do somethin’ again.”

“So you go stagecoach robbin’? I thought you said you were done with this.”

“I didn’t know we were until we were leavin’, and I already agreed to go,” you say with some defense, “But, yeah... In a way I did. It was either this or stare at the lake and be accosted by Dutch. Even this here is a better option.”

Arthur hums, brows lowering over his eyes and narrowing his gaze in the process, “I’m sorry,” he mutters.

Scowling, you ask, “Why are you apologizin’?”

“’Cause it’s all I can do,” he says, a little bitter, but the heat isn’t directed at you, “All I can be is sorry... about makin’ you feel choked off in camp... for comin’ when I know you want space... and I’m sure for now, when you don’t wanna talk to me.”

“If I truly didn’t want to talk to you, I would be walkin’ ahead with Charles.”

“Like you rode here with him, and when we got to the barn.”

“Yeah,” you admit, “I wouldn’t give ya the chance if I didn’t, in some way, want you to take it.”

Glancing at you, he repeats, “In some way?”

Your cheeks heat, and you have to break your eye contact with the man lest your face burst into flames, “It’s just wordin’, Arthur.”

The man doesn’t press, figuring if he does, he might chase you away. It makes something flutter in your chest, that Arthur seems to be walking on eggshells for your benefit, and you inhale sharply as he continues.

“Just... this past week and a half... All I’ve done is think about what happened. With Downes, with the shit in Valentine, with you... And I know that I disappointed you in a way I can’t fix,” at that, your lips turn downward out of emotional reflex, and you cross your arms over your chest, “And I just wanted to tell you that I’m sorry... that I get why you’re mad at me... And... and...”

You look to him, gaze hesitant.

“And you don’t gotta be around me if you don’t wanna be anymore...”

The words cut at you in a way you don’t expect, and you swallow thickly, your lungs feeling as though they were compressed and squeezed from your sides.

You two stop, letting the others walk on without you.

Looking at Arthur, you can see how it hurts him too, face crumpling and eyes set hard. He can’t bear to meet your eyes, lips set thinly as he tries to appear impassive, but failing as the emotion leaks through.

Heart stuttering, you whisper, “Arthur, I’m not gonna abandon you over this... I was mad, and I’m still a little upset, but... I told you, I just wanted space. I ain’t writin’ you off the instant somethin’ goes wrong.”

“You should,” he breaks, and it’s then that you realize you’ve fallen a little bit more behind the group now, but it’s a good thing with the way Arthur seems torn and raw from his admissions to you, “I’m a bad man at heart, Wolf. I always have been... Ain’t been good for a long while yet, not since I ran away from my father. And you... you’re too good for a man like that. Like me. I’m just as god damn bad as Micah.”

“Arthur,” you say with a bit of force in his name, but the outlaw still doesn’t look to you, his gaze cold and dark as he looks to the sky while you speak, “You have no god damn idea what you’re on about. You’re nothin’ like that sick bastard.”

He lowers his head then, eyes meeting yours. His stare is like stone, feeling almost devoid of anything other than hardened resolve and a long-carried misery.

“You don’t know what it was like when you looked at me at the river,” Arthur’s voice cracks just a fraction, and it’s then that he just lets it all slip, “It was like... like when I first saw you... When I came to collect your debt, and I found you outside your cabin after you buried your father... You... You looked at me like I was the devil.”

You’re not sure what to say, your mouth slightly parting as your brain tries to process Arthur’s words.

But the outlaw closes up, just as he usually does any time he allows his walls to crumble away just even a little. And you can see him rebuild it at that moment, his expression growing numb and his voice growing distant.

“Listen, I don’t want you to pity me. I don’t want you to forgive me outta pity. In fact, I’d understand if you never did. I don’t even want you to,” he states, hands clenching at his sides, “I’ve been a bastard, and there ain’t nothin’ I can do but live with that fact... You don’t have to go off and make exceptions just ’cause you have more heart than I could ever manage to have.”

You blink, and you shake your head, “Arthur, that’s not... It won’t be outta pity. And forgiveness, it isn’t conditional like that.”

“No. It won’t be. Men like me, we don’t deserve pity, let alone forgiveness,” he sighs, running a hand over his face, “Just... come on. We need to get back to the group.”

He begins to walk away, but you don’t move. A few steps in, Arthur seems to notice you lingering, and he turns, pivoting to you as his brows furrow as he looks at you.

“Wolf?”

“You’re a god damn idiot...” you tell him.

Frowning, the outlaw tilts his head lightly at you, and you shake your head.

“I’m mad at you because you were a bastard. You made horrible decisions, you were callous. You said shit that made me wanna throttle you square in the jaw, and then you acted like nothin’ was wrong,” you come close to him, your voice lowering until it’s as gentle as the hum of cicadas and crickets around you both, “But don’t you dare for one god damn second think I believe you’re a god damn monster like Micah.”

Arthur’s face contorts, and you look away out into the trees.

“I’m not goin’ to excuse what you did, I never could. I can never forget it, neither. There’s nothin’ that could ever make what happened right, just like you said, but... you’ve done good, too. You’ve been a good man at other times... Because a man like Micah, he... he would’ve done a lot worse to me if he had come to collect my debt,” Arthur’s eyes grow dangerously dark, and you can feel the waves of rage emanating off of the man at the prospect, “But you didn’t do that. You helped me. You helped me get back up on my feet, you helped me learn how to survive this kinda life, you helped me find my mother when I thought she was dead... You’ve feared for me, supported me, cared about me... I... There’s so much there, Arthur. So much kindness, and... and...” your eyes meet his, “and love.”

Arthur’s lips part softly, his eyes glinting like the stars that shimmer above you both. They are widening, taking in your words as he lets out a low breath.

“You’ve been a good man to me. An amazing man. And you never had to be. You could’ve taken advantage when you came to see me, you could’ve left me to fend for myself... But you didn’t. You have tried every step of the god damn way to help me become what I am now, and I can only thank you for that,” your voice waivers a little from the emotion you feel, your throat growing tight with it, “So don’t you dare go as far to say you and Micah are the same person at heart. Because a man like Micah doesn’t have one, and you’ve done nothin’ but use yours with me.”

Arthur looks too shell-shocked to say anything, and you clear your throat, looking down to the ground below.

“You just... you need to choose, Arthur. You need to decide if you’re going to be that kind of man with the rest of the world... Because you can’t... you can’t be both at the same time. No one can be two different people at the same time,” you bite at your lip, “I can’t tell you who to be, nor will I try. That’s somethin’ we all have to choose for ourselves in life. Micah has made his choice, I have made mine. You just need to make yours.”

You turn then, going to walk in the direction that the others had left you in. But this time, after a few steps, it’s you who turns, finding that Arthur is still standing where you left him, fist clenched at his hip.

“Arthur?”

“Thank you,” he tells you, voice sincere and gaze heavy, “Thank you...”

You can only nod, swallowing as you glance to the world ahead of you.

“Well come on. The others are probably wonderin’ where we are...”

“Yeah,” Arthur murmurs, and he comes forward.

And together you walk, side by side, with the air between you feeling a lot more breathable than it ever has been in a long while.

 

**\---**

Thankfully, the group manages to find a few horses leftover in the area. The poor barn that you had taken refuge in is in simmering smithereens, wood charred and full of embers as you happen to see it from the trees. A part of you feels guilty for having been the reason it was destroyed, but there is truly nothing you can do but regret what occurred.

You found a Morgan, a wily little thing. It’s young, younger than you’d like, and a bit inexperienced. In general, Morgan’s are good for riding, but little else, and the poor colt underneath you makes it clear as to why that is as you guide him along the back end of the group. He stomps about, fighting back on the reins and showing his distrust in you, and it just makes going back to camp that much more difficult.

Because, as predicted, the law does finally show up to investigate.

You see them arrive right as you are heading out, thankfully shielded from their perception in the dark as they begin to investigate the massacre and arson that became of the barn and the surrounding woods.

You have to take a little bit of a longer route back, but you thankfully get there in one piece.

As you ride up into camp, Karen is waiting already, looking worried and frantic until her eyes land onto Sean. And then, once the Irishman is in sight, she bolts, running forward and shouting his name as Sean hops off of the Walker he had ridden here.

You watch as they reunite, fresh tears rolling down Karen’s face as she curses Sean for worrying her, and you linger behind at the edge of the camp as everyone filters back into it.

Well, everyone but Arthur.

He lingers as you do, the Mustang shifting underneath him as your eyes move to where D’or has already situated herself with the other horses, and you let out a small breath as Arthur pauses beside you.

“She’s a good horse,” he tells you, “I saw how you didn’t even have to hit her to spur her to leave.”

You nod, humming, “She seems to understand me better than some people I know, sometimes.”

“That she does... You know, when I rode her, right after Blackwater, she handled like a dream. But I could tell she missed you.”

Your lips quirk gently in the dark, and it’s then your eyes shift to Arthur, and your slight smile falls away. The outlaw is looking at you, face almost blank as your mind churns away.

“What are we doin’?” you ask him, “About all this?”

“All of what?”

“Earlier today, you and I weren’t even on speakin’ terms,” you point out, “It just feels... odd.”

Arthur nods, looking down at the Mustang underneath him, “Yeah... I know what you mean...”

The air is heavy but bearable, and you adjust yourself on the Morgan’s saddle before you speak.

“I just want to let you know that... well, I’m not against us talkin’. I’m also certain that Dutch intends for us to work this family feud soon, and truth be told, the last thing I want is the one person I can trust with it at odds ends with me.”

“I can understand that,” the man pauses, “Did he really ask you to charm your way into gettin' intel on them, though?”

You turn to him, eyes narrowing as you take in his carefully blank expression, “Yes... He caught me right before Sean invited me to take part in the stagecoach mess. He’s been kinda hoverin’, and I knew that he was up to somethin’ when I heard about you lot gettin' an in with the sheriff in Rhodes. It was only a matter of time, truly.”

“But he asked you to do that? To act like that?”

“Yes, Arthur. He mentioned you doin’ the same with the Braithwaites and their daughter, Penelope,” your cheeks flush, “But I told him I wasn’t his whore to throw around. I’m not doin’ that sort of thing, ever. Neither of us is. It ain’t fair to think he can use us in a manner like that.”

Arthur’s eyes darken, “Course... Just... He’s never done somethin’ like that before. Even with me.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s room for all sorts of firsts in this line of supposed work,” you sigh, “As long as he leaves it be, I don’t think we’ll have a problem.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Arthur promises you gently, “I’ll make sure he drops it.”

“Thanks... I wasn’t exactly entertained by the prospect. And I got a feelin’ Dutch will have better chances of listenin’ to you than to me, sad as that is. Seems like he’s gettin' into all sorts of trouble,” you pause then, eyeing Arthur in a way as you see him fiddle with his badge, “But you and Dutch and Bill... You really had to become deputies?”

“Oh lord, not you too.”

You hold up one hand in mock surrender, “Hey, I was just askin’. I think it’s a bit ironic, to say the least.”

“Dutch insisted after Sheriff Gray offered. ‘Course, he was drunk off his ass on seized moonshine, but who am I to say that we all didn’t have a drink or two of it before we left and wasn’t feelin’ it myself.”

Scoffing, you shake your head, “Lord, you men and alcohol. Reminds me why I don’t drink.”

“Thought it was also ‘cause you do stupid shit while drunk.”

“Says the kettle,” you fire back.

“Fair enough,” Arthur takes a breath, and then he shifts, “But... to be honest with you, I wasn’t a fan of the idea. I think we got enough problems as is, and we need to lay low. Sure, this ain’t exactly bad-natured apart from Dutch’s schemes, but the last thing we need to do is falsely uphold a parade for ourselves as lawmen here in Rhodes. But Dutch didn’t wanna hear it.”

Humming, you nod in understanding, “I know that well... Seems like he’s listening to everyone else a lot less these days.”

“You have no idea,” Arthur grumbles with some dejection, and you feel your heart pang for the man, “Only one he seems to keep an ear open for is Micah, and... well I’m not sure how to feel about that.”

“I don’t trust him,” you say, eyes finding the man in camp — he’s already grabbed himself a beer and is sitting by the campfire by Pearson’s wagon, a bowl of stew in his lap as he brags boisterously to Javier and Swanson about today’s ordeal with the stagecoach, “I mean... he was practically out for blood with Cornwall’s men... The way he looked... He seemed almost feral.”

“You shoulda seen him in Strawberry then,” Arthur mutters, eyes narrowing on Micah across the way, “He was a god damn animal there.”

“He shot a man today just ‘cause he ran. Another one he shot eight times for no good fuckin’ reason,” you murmur back, your voice hollow as you remember the wicked smirk on Micah’s face, the hunger in his eyes — an insatiable desire for _more,_ “He... He’s gonna do somethin’, I’m sure of it.”

“I have no doubts myself on that,” Arthur growls, “He’s a sick bastard. And with the way he’s wormed his way into Dutch’s pocket... I don’t like the outlook of this at all.”

Looking to Arthur, you frown lightly, “Then what are we gonna do?”

The man’s face draws up in a grimace, and he rubs at his chin out of frustration, fingers disappearing into his growing beard, “I couldn’t tell ya, Wolf... Not right now, anyway. Dutch doesn’t wanna cut Micah loose, and technically nothin’ awful has happened yet. It sucks to say, but... I think we just gotta wait it out and see what happens.”

Cursing, the Morgan underneath you dances on his feet, anxious, “Why does this have to be like this? Why can’t Dutch just leave this shit be and realize this is all so twisted up?”

“Nothin’ ain’t ever easy, ‘specially a lot like us... The world’s changin’, and we got to either catch up or be left behind... And the truth is... I don’t see Dutch movin’ on.”

“Neither do I...”

“It’s all one big mess, Wolf,” he breathes, “We just gotta figure out how to get out of it.”

Arthur sighs, and you see him begin to dismount from his Mustang. You do the same with your Morgan, and once you both are on the ground, Arthur grabs onto the reins to begin guiding his borrowed horse over to camp. Mirroring him, you walk quietly along the edge of the camp, like ghosts as you go over to where the horses reside.

Kieran is there, and to your surprise, he’s working with Bedwyr. The horse has improved tenfold since Arthur brought him to Horseshoe from the Valentine stable. He’s gained weight and muscle back, appearing larger than you remembered, hulking over Kieran and swishing his tail as he happens to look at you and Arthur approach. His hair seems to have grown in more, both with his man and around his hooves, slightly curling and looking as wild as the sharp look in his eye.

His wounds have mostly healed, remaining pink and scarred over. The wound on his face is probably the largest of them all, practically coating the right side of his face.

You can see the flutter in Arthur’s expression as he takes in the stallion, coming forward as Kieran notices you both.

“Oh! Arthur, Ms. Broce!” he stands from where he had been cleaning one of Bedwyr’s rear hooves, his skin slightly glistening from sweat in the lanternlight, “I didn’t even hear ya comin’ up!”

“He’s lookin’ mighty fine, O’Driscoll.”

“I told you, Arthur,” Kieran’s lips turn downward in a slight frown, “I ain’t an O’Driscoll anymore.”

“Yeah, tell that to Sadie.”

“Listen, I’ve settled with the fact that woman is always gonna despise every bone in my body for who I ran with before, and that’s okay. Because I don’t run with them now, and I know why she hates them. They killed her husband. That ain’t somethin’ light.”

Arthur hums, “No. It ain’t.”

“No...” Kieran looks to Bedwyr then, setting a hand on the stallion’s side, “But, Bedwyr here has been doin’ great. He’s gettin' back to his best. But... I told you, back in Valentine. I don’t think he’s just a Missouri Fox Trotter.”

Arthur raises a brow, “Is that so?”

“Yeah. He probably looked more like one while he was underweight and gaunt, but, I think I’ve seen this breed, but only once before... They ain’t common ‘round here. But you know of Friesian breeds?”

“Don’t think I have.”

“They’re from the Netherlands, I think, but it seems like he’s got a bit in him. The hoof size, the way his coat and hair as grown in as he’s filled out... Whoever had him before kept it from growing out. It’s probably why he was just identified as just a Trotter, like D’or.”

Making a face, Arthur asks, “You got all that from his hair?”

“It’s a specific trait to them, and I know my horses. But obviously, I can’t be for certain that he is, but I reckon it’s a good guess at heart.”

Arthur hums, looking at Bedwyr. He hands the reins of his temporary Mustang over to Kieran before approaching Bedwyr. The recovering stallion eyes him but does not protest Arthur’s arrival. In fact, he seems to welcome it, slightly shifting towards the man, especially as Arthur brings his broad hand up to brush at Bedwyr’s neck.

He rumbles, lowering his head and letting hair shaggy hair fall into his pale, blue eyes.

“That’s my boy,” Arthur tells the stallion, “You look so much better now. A lot more like yaself.”

Bedwyr lifts his head, his attention on you.

Pivoting, Arthur looks to you, “You want to pet him?”

“I... I could. If he lets me.”

“Only one way to find out.”

You approach cautiously, and Bedwyr watches you for every step you take. Unlike when you first met him in the back stable in Valentine, he does not object. He does not trash, bare his teeth, or cry out at your approach. But you can see him evaluating you. It’s almost human, his stare — the amount of utter consciousness that you see held within the gaze of this horse. It’s a bit unsettling, and your breath catches as you stop a foot or so away from the stallion, hand extended.

He doesn’t exactly take to you as he does Arthur, but he still permits you to touch him. It’s surreal, the way you somehow know that the only reason your hand can run down his face is if Bedwyr allows it, that this is on his terms and his alone. It’s a fine line with the stallion, and you withdraw your hand before you unintentionally cross it.

“Well I’ll be damned,” Arthur beams.

“I told you, he’s been doin’ well,” Kieran informs Arthur, “But do be careful, just the other day Micah came to me about Baylock, and Bedwyr about kicked him for the trouble.”

Chuckling, Arthur pats the stallion once more, “I honestly don’t see a problem with that.”

Kieran doesn’t exactly voice any disagreement.

“How long till you think he is rideable?” Arthur asks, looking back to the former O’Driscoll.

“I reckon he could be even now, depending on if he’d let you. Otherwise, I’d say we could try saddlin’ him up sometime too if he plays along.”

“Sounds like a task for tomorrow,” Arthur grins, “How does that sound, boy? I bet you’d like to get out and run around again.”

Bedwyr bows his head, rumbling and dragging his foot against the overgrown grass below.

“That’s the spirit!”

“Just let me know when you’re ready, and we can try to see how he does. I’m holdin’ my breath, but we’ll only know if we try.”

Growing serious, Arthur looks to Kieran, eyes narrowing softly as his drawl lowers, “Thank you, for takin’ care of him. I’m sure it hasn’t been easy.”

“Nah. It ain’t nothin’ really. I like horses. I like gettin' to help them,” Kieran smiles faintly, a pure expression as he wipes his dirty hands with a muddied cloth, “Bedwyr has been a piece of work, but I’ve known people worse than him.”

Nodding, Arthur mutters, “You n’ me both, kid.”

“See you tomorrow, then. In the meantime, I’ll get these new ones taken care of.”

“Good, and I’ll come ‘round sometime when I’m ready.”

Arthur steps away from Bedwyr, the stallion looking after you both as you leave the horses you’d taken in with Kieran. The man goes to work on them as you walk a little further than the perimeter of camp. In fact, you stop on the slight hill by Arthur’s tent, overlooking the camp and watching as most of the members file to go to bed for the night, with Pearson already cleaning up the stew he had prepared. Sadie is at his side, bickering with him as he tosses what was left.

“Shit,” you frown, “I was rather lookin’ forward to that.”

“You n’ me both. I haven’t eaten anythin’ today.”

“Yeah, and you look like you ain’t bathed in a while neither,” you point out, “You need to take better care of yourself.”

Quirking a brow, Arthur settles his hands onto his gun belt, looking at you respectively, “You know, with just a bit of shrill in your voice, you’d sound exactly like Grimshaw this mornin’.”

“She’s got a point. You look like you crawled out of a grave plot,” and, getting a wicked look on your face, you punch him lightly on the arm, “Smell like it too.”

“Why, if I didn’t hear it myself, I’d say that this is the first time you’ve ever tried to rib me, Wolf.”

Shaking your head, you cross your arms over your chest, looking back over the camp, “Oh, I’ve done it plenty of other times, I can assure you.”

“You know, I gotta say,” Arthur grows quiet, and you look over, seeing him glancing down at his muddied boots, “I missed ya, for the time we didn’t talk...”

Weakening at his words, your voice is just above a whisper as you reply.

“I missed you too... But don’t you dare pull that shit again.”

It makes the corner of Arthur’s lips quirk upward, and your heart stutters at the expression, “‘Course not...”

You force yourself to rip your eyes away, looking back to where Pearson hangs the now empty cast iron pot back on its hook while Sadie stomps away from him. The former navy man waves a dismissive hand as she departs, and you hear Arthur shift beside you.

“You know, we... we haven’t done it in a while,” he murmurs, “But... maybe... if you were okay with it... we could have dinner in my tent together.”

Surprise has your attention shifting back to the outlaw, and you blink, eyes widening some as you take him in. He’s already looking at you, gaze warm but also bemused, and you can see him carry an air of anxiety around him at his offer.

“We don’t have to, if you don’t want to, of course,” he rambles now, rubbing at the back of his neck sheepishly, “I just... well, I’d understand if you don’t want to, and—”

“Okay.”

Arthur blinks, blanking for a moment as he looks at you from under his lashes, arm falling away from his neck slowly until it rests by his side. You can tell that he wasn’t expecting you to agree, and a part of you wonders why you did.

After all, he’d enraged you like nothing else. He made the last two days you spent in Valentine utter hell on earth and didn’t seem to be sorry for causing such a thing to happen.

But there’s a part of you, so stubborn and sure, that knows you could not push the man away entirely. Not now, not after you’ve been through so much together.

It’s true that the man is bound at your hip, and you to his. Without a doubt, you two were tied together at this point, fates intertwined in a way you had yet to understand, let alone broach. Like flowers who grew and were picked together, chained by your stems as you once were with your roots. It was there, and you could feel the tethering to the man across from you, still holding tight despite all that he had done a week and a half ago.

It’s as terrifying as it is comforting in certain ways, and you figure that if things with the gang were to fall apart, and that all of this would go to the wind and be lost, that at the very least, there was something good that came out of it.

That you could come out with.

The man before you shifts, unusually flustered as his eyes pinch from thought. Your face is almost impassive, shielding Arthur from your own thoughts that plague you in these fragile moments, at the way you know with utter certainty that, even with all of this happening, all you want is for Arthur to come with you when that time comes.

“Well, I don’t have anythin’ as hearty as a stew, but,” the man’s voice cuts through, and your lips part gingerly as you exhale, “I’ve got some canned foods. Maybe we could even use the campfire over there, fix somethin’ up for ourselves?”

“Yeah. Yeah, we could,” you murmur.

You watch as Arthur goes into his satchel, removing a few items, “We could even have dessert. I got a candy bar or two, at the general store. It ain’t much, but—”

“It sounds perfect.”

Arthur’s lips split with a partial grin, the expression warm and full of something you can’t quite pin as he dips his head, chuckling.

“Great. Guess we’ll get started then?”

You nod, mirroring his expression, “Guess so.”

And together, you head into Arthur’s tent, falling back into a pleasant conversation, helping you forget your realization as you talk amidst the shelter of the canvas that surrounds you both.

Your murmurs fall into the hum of crickets and cicadas, as warm and encompassing as the night you plan on spending together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can support me or show some love through my new kofi page! (Anything is appreciated, and thank you to those who have given me some ko-fi's so far!)  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eCU2XMpVak


	12. Clemens Point II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lifting her head, Penelope resolves herself once more, “Worse comes to worst, I’d be shipped off somewhere. Probably Ohio.” 
> 
> Confused, Arthur echoes, “Ohio?” 
> 
> “Yes... You ever been to Ohio, sir?” Penelope asks, and when Arthur shakes his head, she looks back at the lake, her voice as stern as her features as she continues, “Well, neither have I. But I have an uncle who lives there. He’s a bit of a black sheep, on account for him havin’ left. But he opened a factory, became successful. And now they tolerate him because he’s a vicious snob,” she laughs bitterly, “They would send me there, likely to work and die away in his factory just like his poor workers.” 
> 
> Frowning at that, you ask, “Would the same happen if they found out about you and Beau?” 
> 
> “I don’t care what comes of me if they found out,” she says, determined, “Not only do I love Beau, forever and true, but it would be the greatest thing I could ever bestow upon my family.” 
> 
> “And that is?” 
> 
> “A ruined reputation,” she says venomously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this was a wild trip!
> 
> Honestly loved getting to get certain characters we haven't seen much on involved for this update, and in general, that I'm getting closer and closer to really getting our feet dug into the real meat of this story!
> 
> Thank you guys for still being so supportive and coming back to read this story despite it taking forever (but I promise it won't be an eternity!)
> 
> Enjoy!~

The sun rises slow and steady, bathing Clemens Point in a beautiful, ethereal glow. A slight fog rolls over the water, with frogs nearby croaking and their voices mixing in with the rhythmic roll of the lake waters against the banks. 

It’s a calm morning, and you are enjoying it as you sip at your coffee, placed at the table underneath the large willow that hangs over a portion of the camp. The mug by your hand still steams, and you place it back into its designated perch while you get back to work, writing away at the rest of your letter. 

Having worked on it since you first arrived in camp, your letter to your mother is almost complete, and you are so close to wrapping up the emotional reply as you hear grass crunch off to your side. Not lifting your head, you work the pencil in your hand, completing your current sentence as someone sits in front of you, placing their own coffee onto the table, it now opposite of yours. 

A small smile creaks the corner of your lips, and you hum, chuckling softly as you set the papers down onto the table before you. 

“You aim to just sit n’ watch me, or are you gonna greet me like a normal person, Arthur?” you tease. 

“Mornin’,” Arthur says with a bit of flair, his own smirk playing out on his face before he nods in acknowledgment to the letter, the papers splayed out on the slightly warped boards of the table, “How’s she comin’ along?” 

“I’m almost done... I mean, it’s taken me a while to find the words. Especially with all that she told me, but... I’ve managed.” 

He nods once, taking a sip of his coffee before murmuring, “And do you plan on sendin’ it soon?” 

“If I can... Just... Never thought I’d get the chance to write to my mom.” 

Arthur smiles warmly form where he leans across the table some, “Told ya, if you let the anger pass, you may find there’s somethin’ worth fightin’ for.” 

Your cheeks heat a little, and you nod, “Thankfully, there is.” 

Arthur sits back a bit, sighing, “Well, you should finish it soon. We can take your letter up with the other mail. Strauss just got our alias set up at the train station, so it should be as good as gold now.” 

Looking at your letter, your eyes narrow a fraction, “Sounds like a plan...” 

“And speakin’ of a plan...” Arthur starts quietly, and you shift your eyes to him, only to find the outlaw looking to where the horses reside over the slight hill at the side of camp, about four yards off to your right, “There’s still the matter of Bedwyr...” 

From your spot, you can see Kieran, already working with the stallion and brushing his wavy hair with a brush in one hand, and coaxing him on his withers with the other. Bedwyr seems calm, but you still remember the horse you had come upon in the stables at Valentine. And while he has healed up and come a long way since then, your memory cannot be shaken. 

A little doubtful, you voice your trepidation, “Are you sure he’s gonna let you even get a saddle on him?” 

“Maybe. Maybe not. It’s all up to him,” Arthur mumbles, eyes still lingering on the stallion across the way. 

“And if he isn’t rideable?” 

“Then I keep the Walker,” Arthur answers simply. 

“And what of Bedwyr? What would come of him?” 

Arthur’s brows pinch, “I’m... I’m not sure...” 

You open your mouth to ask Arthur about a few more options, but before you can voice them, you hear shouting at your side. Both your own and Arthur’s attention shifts, falling onto Sadie and where she stomps away from Pearson, making a highly grating, aggravated noise at the man. Her light blue checkered dress shifts with her angered movements, the fabric swaying and its frills whipping against themselves with the dramatics of her stance. 

“I 'otta gut you like a pig!” she seethes, as she heads over to one of the tables set up by Pearson’s wagon, its top covered with a cutting board and array of partially cut vegetables with a nasty looking cleaver set beside them, “The way you reek and look of one, I’d think it be fittin’!” 

“You are nothin’ but a god damn wench!” 

Arthur moves before you can process the situation, and he runs over, getting to Pearson’s wagon in time to stop Sadie as she grabs the cleaver and jumps at the former navy man, a wild, feral noise escaping her from somewhere in the pit of her stomach. Arthur manages to catch her by the waist, pulling the madwoman back as her blonde hair falls about her face wildly, her brown eyes almost looking as though they were alight as she wields the cleaver with a dark intent towards Pearson. 

Rushing over yourself, you put a hand on Pearson as you arrive, guiding the portly man back somewhat from where he still tries to clash with Sadie. The man’s brow and thinning hairline are covered in sweat, and his skin is red and flushed from his anger as he practically snorts through his nose with how he breathes roughly. 

“You are crazy!” he snaps, his shouting drawing the attention of a few of the waking camp members, “God damn crazy! A heretic! Just mental!” 

“Oh, go back to your field to graze already!” Sadie yells. 

You can hear Javier chuckle from where he leans against the willow that drapes over this section of the camp, his lips upturned in an amused smile as Pearson yanks himself away from you. 

“Get her out of here before I kill her,” he warns, eyes like coals on Sadie as she glares back with just as much poison and fire in her gaze. 

“You would try!” 

Pearson stomps off, leaving you three at his wagon as Arthur finally lets go of Sadie. 

“Think that was a bit much, Mrs. Adler?” Arthur questions, placing his hands on his hips as the woman turns her back to him, returning to the table with the cutting board. 

The woman huffs indignantly, slamming the edge of the cleaver down onto the wood until the sharp edge of the metal is lodged bluntly into the poor boards below before she spins on her heel. Her face is drawn up, her scowl dotted with her countless freckles as she snaps. 

“I ain’t cuttin’ damn vegetables all day! I’m not some housewife here!” 

“No one said you were,” Arthur tilts his head at her, tone even and calm compared to the rage and tension in Sadie’s, “You’re just helpin’ out, is all.” 

“And I can do more than prepare a stew! My husband knew this, and we shared the work!” she looks to you then, eyes setting onto you, but not with any rage or sense of disgust, but rather a mixture of intrigue and respect, “You. Wolf. Tell me, how long did it take you to be able to run with these men around here?” 

Blinking, you weren’t expecting the attention to shift to you. Glancing off to the side, you can even see how Javier watches and listens on curiously as he nurses a cigarette. As your eyes meet, he makes a small hand motion for you to continue the conversation, his smirk speaking of the entertainment this is all bringing him. 

“I, well,” you turn back to Arthur and Sadie, the other woman looking at you expectantly, “It took a while, and some convincing... But I had to prove I could hold my own. And even now I still face doubts.” 

“Doubts are good,” Sadie starts, coming over to you, “Means they’ll be all the more surprised n’ disappointed when you prove ‘em wrong.” 

You can’t help but smile a little at her apparent fire, “Guess you have a point there.” 

“’Course I do,” Sadie hums, and she looks to Arthur, “Say, Arthur. You should take us out. Let us ride with you on somethin’.” 

The man laughs, shaking his head, “I don’t think so, Sadie...” 

The widow approaches him, finger pointing harshly at and then into his chest once she stops about a foot in front of him, her voice accosting the outlaw then, “Listen here. I’m not spendin’ another _god damn minute_ in this camp, and I sure as hell won’t be around that god damn pig, lest you want a roast for dinner.” 

Arthur raises his hands in mock surrender, and instead of anger, you can see the humor that is brought out by Sadie’s insistence, “Now, there’s no need to go murderin’ the camp cook over a small disagreement.” 

“It ain’t no disagreement, Arthur. It’s bullshit, plain n’ simple,” she steps away, letting her hand fall back to her side to clench into a fist, “I told you, I’m no housewife... I get that I took a minute to come around, but my husband and I... Well, we did everythin’ together. Some nights I’d tend to the horses while he cooked dinner, or I hunted while he did the laundry. And I’ll be damned if you all expect me to just chop vegetables all day!” 

Darkening, Arthur’s face draws up, and his voice lowers while he narrows his eyes on Sadie, “Well if you do ride out, you gotta understand, Mrs. Adler, that when you ride with the men, you deal with the problems we carry... Because we may have guns, but the things that are huntin’ us, well, they got guns of their own.” 

Without hesitation, Sadie meets Arthur’s gaze head-on, her voice low and lacking any intimidation, “I ain’t afraid of dyin’.” 

Arthur smirks, clapping a hand onto her shoulder, “Then I think you’ll fit in just fine.” 

Sadie doesn’t smile at the acceptance, but she nods only once in acknowledgment of it. But then, she departs from Arthur, coming up to your side as Pearson happens to round the other side of his wagon, approaching the outlaw and beginning to murmur the start of a conversation to the man while Sadie eyes you. 

“So... You’re the infamous Wolf.” 

“Yes,” you pause, a little confused, “You know, we’ve gotten to talk before.” 

“Oh, I know. Trust me, I remember the conversations we had in Horseshoe,” Sadie hums, “Just... it was a different time for me then.” 

Softly, you nod, murmuring, “Me too...” 

“I just... I wanted to say, seein’ you... It helped me. Get outta that fog, I mean... I’ve always been a strong woman, and I’ve never been... been that defeated before... Losin’ Jake... I ‘bout lost myself. But you were like a light in the darkness for me to follow, and... I wanted to thank you. For helpin’ me get back in what ways I could.” 

You smile lightly, ducking your head some, “I’m honored to have helped in that way.” 

“Well, now I can finally see you in action, and I can get some of my own,” Sadie breathes out roughly, “I’m lookin’ forward to shootin’ a gun again.” 

To your surprise, the comment makes you laugh, and Sadie grins for it as Arthur approaches, an envelope in hand. 

“What did that pig have for you now?” Sadie huffs as Arthur stops beside you both. 

“Just a letter,” he says easily, “Say, Wolf, you should finish yours real quick. I can mail off both when we get to Rhodes.” 

“Rhodes?” Sadie echoes, brows furrowing, “Is there someone we gotta kill in Rhodes?” 

“What? No,” Arthur’s pinched expression almost makes you laugh as he shakes his head, “We just have errands to run.” 

“’Course. Errands,” Sadie mutters unhappily. 

Brushing her upset off as easily as he can, Arthur dips his head at you, “Well, while we’re there, I can take your letter with Pearson’s. So it shouldn’t be an issue.” 

“Oh,” blinking, you look back over to the table where your papers and scribbles are still strewn about, “Are you sure?” 

“’Course! In the meantime, I can see how Bedwyr is.” 

As you three begin to walk across camp, leaving Javier to finish his cigarette without any further entertainment, Sadie grows confused, glancing between you two. 

“Who’s Bedwyr?” 

“Stallion I picked up in Valentine,” Arthur explains as you near the table with your letter scattered about it, “He’s a work in progress, to say the least.” 

“Ah... Think I know which horse you’re talkin’ about... That nasty lookin’ bastard over there that gives Bill’s horse a run for his money?” 

Sighing as Arthur eyes the stallion carefully, he whispers, “Yep.” 

She huffs slightly, taking in the sight of Kieran still working with the horse from afar, “Well, be careful. I wouldn’t trust that damn O’Driscoll with him.” 

You sit down at the table as Arthur and Sadie remain standing behind you, still eyeing the massive beast from across the way. 

“Kieran ain’t bad,” Arthur informs her lowly as you grab your pencil, “I know you have your reservations ‘bout him, and I ain’t tellin’ you to change your mind on any of it... But Kieran, he ain’t a bad kid at heart.” 

“He may not be a bad kid, but he was an O’Driscoll,” Sadie hisses, her weathered voice gaining more grit and venom as she growls, “And once an O’Driscoll, always an O’Driscoll. And I don’t care for them much at all.” 

Arthur doesn’t say anything in response to Sadie’s anger. Instead, he looks to you as you finish writing the last few sentences of your letter. 

“You almost done?” 

“Yeah,” you say, fixing the last period and going to sign at the bottom with your initials before you lean back some, “It’s somethin’.” 

“Well, get it gathered together so we can mail it. While you do that, I’m gonna see if I can saddle up Bedwyr.” 

The man steps away, walking to where Kieran is with his stallion some yards off from camp. At his departure, Sadie breathes out roughly, and she goes to sit across the table from you. Since you have left, your poor coffee has grown cold, and you frown lightly at its loss as you address the envelope to your mother accordingly, remembering her instructions as Sadie watches you without reservation. 

“That’s to your mother?” she asks. 

“Yes,” you answer easily, scrawling the appropriate alias across the front of the envelope. 

“Huh,” the widow across from you steeples her hands together on the table, “I heard your parents were both dead.” 

You can’t help the way your face falls a bit, but you catch it quickly, just in time before Sadie can notice the reaction as you explain the situation to her. 

“My dad is, without a doubt. And up until our time in Horseshoe, I thought my mother was too... Turns out that really wasn’t the case.” 

The conversation doesn’t seem to faze Sadie, and she tilts her head as she continues her questioning. 

“Your father... I heard about what happened to him, though... It was back in Blackwater before you all came up into Colter on the run...” she quiets some, “You got the bastard? The one who did it?” 

As you seal your mother’s envelope, you look to the paper, stilling some. 

“Yes,” you whisper. 

“Did it make you feel any better?” 

You look at Sadie, but she is not eyeing you. Instead, her eyes are set harshly onto the wood of the table before her, and her brows are pinched. You can see the pink scar on her forehead and by her lip, but you know that her scars go deeper and aren’t as physical as what you can see. 

Breathing out just a little, you set your mother’s letter down onto the table, your voice gentle and honest. 

“There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t think about Francis,” you start, and Sadie’s eyes move to you slowly, almost as though you were pulling her from her thoughts— her memories, “He was the first person I ever killed, and it’s always going to stick with me... And the thing is, at the time, I thought it would bring me peace. And in some ways it has... I know that Francis can’t hurt anyone anymore, that he can’t make them sick... But... It didn’t bring my father back. It didn’t change what happened to him... Revenge, it... it isn’t straightforward like that. It isn’t so simple or encompassing. Maybe it makes you feel better in the moment, or it brings you closure in others... but it never makes the reason why, or the pain that reason brings, go away.” 

Sadie is looking at you, lips pinched and brows drawing together. You can see her working through your words, and she swallows thickly. 

“I’m just so angry,” she tells you, “And I think that’s all I ever will be.” 

You set a hand onto hers, and the widow cautiously looks at you. The whites of her eyes are slightly red, and you can see the agony that she carries with her. 

“Then be angry,” you insist, “Just don’t let it become you.” 

She nods a few times and then sucks in a sharp, deep breath before she pulls her hand away from yours, standing. 

“Come on. I think your boyfriend is about to get trampled.” 

“Boyfriend?” you echo, and your eyes are narrowed in confusion until they widen, a shrill noise announcing itself from off to the side of camp. 

You look to see Bedwyr rearing, his large hooves rolling in the air as he works his legs, eyes widened and the wisps of his hair shifting about his face as he makes Kieran back away from him and Arthur. They only have a spare saddle on the stallion, but they are struggling to get him to take his bit. 

You grab your letter, shoving it into your satchel as you come over with Sadie. 

Poor Kieran is frightened, taking a step back as Bedwyr lands with a heavy thump. He seems agitated, ears back and shifting on his feet. The stallion pointedly keeps Kieran in his sight, and a few feet from him as he turns, making the former O’Driscoll keep in his pace. 

It’s obvious that Bedwyr has the control here, and that doesn’t bode well as Arthur frowns as the situation. 

“Easy boy!” he tells him, and the stallion only listens a little. 

But he doesn’t back down, only acting cagier as you and Sadie approach. 

“What happened?” 

“We got him saddled up just fine, but it’s the bit,” Kieran shakes, “He doesn’t want to take it. Goin’ by the nasty scars at his mouth, I guess that’s why he don’t want it.” 

“Then don’t force him.” 

You all turn your heads to Sadie, and she has her arms crossed. She refuses to acknowledge Kieran, and her words are slightly harsh as she explains herself. 

“He was fine before you made him take it. So don’t force it.” 

Kieran frowns, and he lifts the bit up with his hand. Bedwyr makes an aggravated noise, flicking his tail and stomping his hoof once at its appearance. 

“Fine, let’s... let’s forego the bit for right now,” Arthur murmurs, “We’ll just have to try somethin’ else.” 

He then leans over, taking the bit from Kieran’s hand. Bedwyr eyes him cautiously, paranoid of the bit until Arthur takes it and tosses it into the grass at his side. 

At its disappearance, the stallion seems to calm, his eyes not leaving Arthur. 

“Try him now.” 

Arthur raises his hands, slowly walking forth until he nears Bedwyr. The stallion does not protest this time and allows Arthur to come up beside him. Arthur manages to get himself situated into the saddle, his feet hooking to the stirrups as he hefts himself up to sit on Bedwyr. 

The stallion shifts some, ears flicking backward, but he makes no move to protest Arthur’s presence or weight on him, instead he fixes his footing and cants his head up a few times. 

“There we go, boy!” Arthur rejoices, and he pats the stallion on the neck a few times in praise. 

“I guess he won’t accept a bit or bridle,” Kieran mutters, “But, I do have somethin’ else for you.” 

Kieran goes to the nearby hitching post, and he grabs what looks to be like a loop of leather. It’s black and rather large in circumference, and he grabs onto it, coming over to hand it to Arthur. 

“It’s a neck rope, so it can kind of give you the same handlin’ as reins would, but there isn’t anythin’ else for him to wear. We can see if he tolerates that instead of the bridle, so you still have some control while ridin’. This way he doesn’t have to take a bit.” 

Arthur takes the neck rope, and he lets Bedwyr see it before he does anything else. Unlike with the bridle, the stallion does not protest the neck rope, rumbling lightly as Arthur loops it over his neck. The length of the leather fits along Bedwyr’s chest perfectly, offering some loose leather at the back of his neck for Arthur to pull up upon, similar to the reins a brindle would offer. As he gets the slack situated, Bedwyr seems to stand at attention, ears flicking forward as he straightens, and he seems to be waiting for Arthur’s instructions intently. 

“Well... here we go,” the outlaw mutters. 

Arthur spurs him lightly, tapping to where his skin has healed but his coat has yet to regrow on his sides, but to no avail. Bedwyr doesn’t move, and Arthur frowns as the horse stands stubbornly underneath him. 

“Maybe pass on the spurs too,” Kieran suggests, “See if you can get him to move another way.” 

Arthur hums, thinking for a second before his eyes light up with an idea. Curiously, he taps Bedwyr with the sides of his shoes, lightly squeezing the stallion’s sides to inform him of his desired task. 

And much to your surprise, the large horse begins to walk forward as Arthur uses his legs and hips, refraining from spurring Bedwyr as he leans forward. It’s remarkable, how Bedwyr responds, instantly walking forward as a bright smile stretches Arthur’s lips. 

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Kieran whispers. 

By the horses, there is a small space of land before a thicket of trees begins. It’s nothing massive, but it’s a few good yards of clear, flatter land that Arthur leads Bedwyr into. There, he works on the stallion’s speeds, getting him to trot and canter, and seeing how he handles and turns. The outlaw doesn’t use his spurs once, rather having the opportunity to get Bedwyr to pick up his speed by tapping his sides with his boots, and clicking his tongue as well to announce the change. 

Bedwyr performs perfectly, following each of Arthur’s requests without issue and loyally, and you can’t help the smile that breaks out on your face as Arthur slows the stallion after a few moments of riding, bringing Bedwyr back to Kieran as he laughs, his long hair ruffled from his ride. 

“He rides like a damn dream,” Arthur praises, now lowering himself off of Bedwyr. 

“Guess he just wants to be ridden on his own terms now,” Kieran murmurs. 

“That’s fine... After what he went through, I can respect that sorta thing,” Arthur eyes the stallion, looking rather pleased and tickled pink, “It’s somethin’ we’ll work on, in the next few weeks.” 

“I’m guessin’ you won’t take him on as your main horse just yet?” you ask. 

Shaking his head, Arthur places his hands on his hips as Kieran begins to remove the spare saddle from Bedwyr, “Nah. It’s not that I doubt him, or I felt unsafe... I just feel like I need to work some more on trust. Let him know that I ain’t gonna push him just ‘cause he gave a little today.” 

Bedwyr neighs, and you chuckle at his response. 

“He seems to appreciate the consideration.” 

“I’ll just use the Walker in the meantime, till I feel Bedwyr’s ready,” with a happy sigh, Arthur pats the stallion’s flank, “Shouldn’t be too long, now.” 

From the side, Sadie crosses her arms, and she regards Arthur with some amount of impatience, “Well, now that you’ve tried your hand at ridin’, you think we can head into town now?” 

“Oh, ‘course,” Arthur glances to you then, “You got that letter of yours written?” 

“Yeah. Told you, I was almost done,” you open your satchel, grabbing the envelope and handing it to Arthur, “Should be ready for her now...” 

“It’s a good thing,” he tells you, a slight smile of encouragement resting on his lips before he turns to Kieran, speaking to the boy, “Thanks for lettin’ me try at him today.” 

“It ain’t no problem, Arthur. I could tell he was anxious and needed a bit of exercise.” 

“Well, I’ll be coming back ‘round every so often, so I’m sure he’ll get his fill.” 

Nodding, Kieran removes the neck rope from the stallion, “Sounds like a plan, Mr. Morgan!” 

Arthur heaves out a sigh, and he begins walking away, grabbing out Pearson’s letter from his satchel to place them together as you walk down the hill to the front of camp. 

“So, what are we doin’ in Rhodes, apart from mailin’ stuff?” Sadie asks. 

“Well, I guess you two could hit the general store while I go to the train station to mail these off. We were needin’ some supplies for camp,” Arthur then points to the wagon that Pearson is working on right across from the scout fire, “We’re gonna be takin’ that to get what we need.” 

Sadie frowns, looking to Arthur, “And are we gonna do anythin’ other than shoppin’?” 

“I mean, you could steal an apple or somethin’ if that makes you feel better about it.” 

Scoffing, Sadie glares at the wagon as she approaches it, “Figures I’d graduate from choppin’ vegetables to buyin’ ‘em.” 

Pearson only nods at Arthur, sending a dirty look at Sadie, which she returns full force, as he walks away, leaving you all to situate yourselves. 

“Not everythin’ we do is about killin’ people or breakin’ the law,” Arthur explains, and he clambers up to the driver’s seat of the wagon, pausing halfway to look back at you and Sadie, “In fact, it’s a lot like doin’ chores anyways.” 

“Think I’d rather get to put a bullet in a man than to grab a sack of flour,” Sadie comments bitterly as she climbs into the back of the wagon, and you go up the side to sit in the passenger side of the bench. 

Once you’re all seated, Arthur grabs the reins to the drafts leading the wagon, and he motions them forth. The wagon lurches forward, and Sadie comes up behind you both from the start of the carriage, and she looks to you. 

“Tell me it ain’t always like this, Wolf,” she pleads, “You gotta give a girl hope.” 

“I mean... It isn’t always. But... most of the time, you are sent out to do dirty work.” 

Sadie groans, shaking her head, “’Course it’s no better... Say, Arthur, think you can offer me a little entertainment by handin’ me Pearson’s letter? I need somethin’ to make this trip worthwhile.” 

The outlaw’s surprise is evident, and he glances back to Sadie for a split second before focusing ack on guiding the wagon out onto the path that leads to the main road outside camp, “Really, Sadie? You want to read his mail?” 

“I frankly think it’s surprising that he’s got anyone to even write to!” she exclaims, “And besides, we can go robbin’ and killin’ people all we like, but letter readin’ is where we draw the line?” 

At those words, Arthur’s lips press together, and he sighs. Begrudgingly, he dips his hand into his pocket, digging out the envelope Pearson had given him and holding it back in Sadie’s direction. 

“Here.” 

“Arthur,” you scold lightly, but there isn’t much heat in it. 

“What? She’s kinda got a point,” Arthur says in some defense as you hear Sadie part open the envelope behind you, “’Sides. I kinda wanna know who he writes to, anyways.” 

Sighing, you drop your sad protest, “We truly are a bunch of degenerates...” 

“ _Dear Aunt Sally,_ ” she starts in a low, theatrical voice, an obvious impression of Pearson that makes the corner of your lips tick upward, “ _It’s been a long time since I’ve gotten to write for you. With us being on the run, and our lives on the line, I’ve been worried about getting to write this to you..._ Okay, blah blah blah, he mentions getting some more money, he ate bison for the first time... Figures he’d mention the food... Oh! Here!” Sadie giggles and you glance back to Sadie, seeing her performance as she garners her impression once more, “ _I have traveled the country making no small name for myself, and I’ve left quite the impression on the ladies that I have met during my trek. Which comes to no surprise, I’m sure!_ ” 

You can’t help it, you laugh alongside Arthur as Sadie leans up between you both, her lips parted with a humorous smirk. 

“ _As for my lack of a wife, I sadly still have not married. Although, it is not for a lack of eager suitors!”_ Sadie snorts, shaking her head, “He ever lay with a woman he ain’t paid for?” 

“Okay okay, we’ve had our fun,” Arthur tells her, a slight chuckle still coming through his words, “Poor Pearson’s been abused enough.” 

Sadie doesn’t seem convinced, but she does begin to put away Pearson’s letter, “Hey, it’s a genuine question. I mean, he was making no small name for himself over the past few months, after all! Just wondered if his pocket suffered for it. But, I’m sure his belt did. He ain’t a small man to begin with.” 

“We all have things we hide behind,” Arthur tells her, “And out of all the things Pearson can do, lyin’ in letters to his aunt ain’t really a bad thing.” 

“Well, his poor aunt is in for a shock,” Sadie pauses then, eyeing Arthur suspiciously, “But what do you hide behind, Arthur?” 

The man scoffs, “I don’t hide.” 

“Pretty sure you did for a week n’ a half before you made up with Wolf,” Sadie easily states, and while your own cheeks heat, Arthur’s face flushes slightly as he takes the curve towards Rhodes, “’Sides, I also see you with your face buried in your journal all the time. Think you’d ever let me read it?” 

“Not a chance,” Arthur says, blunt. 

“The mind boggles,” Sade turns his attention onto you, eyes narrowing, “You know, Karen told me you read it once. But that doesn’t come as a surprise to me.” 

“It was a while ago, back before Blackwater,” you state, refusing to look Arthur’s way, “It was mostly drawings I saw. I didn’t read anythin’.” 

“I’m sure you’d like to now—” 

“You know, you are a god damn handful,” Arthur growls lightly, but underneath his annoyance, you can sense his amusement. 

Sadie doesn’t seem bothered by the comment or its superficial nip in the slightest, “I know I am. I always have been. I’ve never aimed to be a simple woman who keeps to herself and doesn’t speak her mind. If that bothers you, then good.” 

“It doesn’t,” Arthur assures her, “It’s actually kind of refreshin’. Well, when it ain’t turned on ya.” 

That makes the widow snort, “It bothers the people I want it to bother,” she explains as you begin to ride into town, “In my mind, if I piss ‘em off, then I’m doin’ somethin’ right for myself.” 

“That’s one way to think about it.” 

The conversation lapses as you ride into Rhodes, and Arthur begins to slow the drafts as he comes upon the general store. It’s on the left of the strip, directly at the start of the town from where the road crosses through it. The rusty dirt below shifts under the wheels as Arthur turns the wagon, bringing it to the side of the shop as getting the horses to slow as Sadie looks to the shop at your side. 

“Okay, I’m gonna head to the train station over there,” Arthur points, and you see the long, yellow-sided building across the way, framed with some white picket fencing and a few aspen trees, “You two head into the shop and—” 

You hear a gun click, and your eyes dart down to the open space on the bench between you and Arthur. There, you see a shiny Colt with its barrel revolving, and Sadie’s hand holding it eagerly. 

“Sadie, put that fuckin’ thing away!” Arthur hisses lowly, and he presses his palm against the gun, pushing it back towards Sadie in an attempt to hide it from anyone who happens to be looking, “We ain’t shootin’ anyone!” 

Disappointed and slightly annoyed, Sadie holsters the pistol, “A sad outlaw, you are.” 

Arthur sets her with a light glare while you let out a tense breath, “Ain’t that at all. Just that Dutch has ordered we don’t cause trouble here in Rhodes, and that means usin’ weapons.” 

“Why? ‘Cause he wants to farce around as a deputy with you n’ Bill?” she asks, clicking her tongue as you all hop off of the wagon, “Does he even remember why we ran here in the first place?” 

“We’re not arguin’ the logic of this. Just... respect his wishes, and keep outta trouble. Please?” he asks, coming around the front of the wagon to meet you and Sadie at its end. 

“Fine,” she settles, but she doesn’t look pleased with her compliance, “I won’t shoot no one. Even if they deserve it.” 

“Good,” Arthur then digs in his pocket, producing a small money clip that is surrounded by a piece of paper, “This is some money and a list of what we need. You all start gettin' what we need. I need to mail these letters off.” 

Looking to the man as you take the clip and list you ask, “You gonna join us once you’re done?” 

“Well, not outright... Dutch wants me to talk to Sheriff Gray... Apparently, he’s got another plan cookin’ up.” 

“’Course he does.” 

“Just get the shoppin’ done. It ain’t pullin’ y’all’s teeth any.” 

Sadie mutters something under her breath, leaving Arthur to sigh as he turns and walks away. You watch the outlaw depart, jogging to get to the other side of the road as a wagon passes through before he continues his walk to the train station. Beside you, you hear Sadie lightly whistle, and you jump, your eyes breaking off to land on her. 

“He’s a mighty piece of work.” 

“Sadie,” you warn her, and together, you both turn, walking to the shop, “He ain’t.” 

“Of course you think that,” she starts, and when you open your mouth to protest her words, she lifts a hand, cutting you off, “Now, I’m not sayin’ I don’t like him. ‘Cause I do. I think he’s one of the few bastards in the gang worth his grain of salt. But damn... I was really hopin’ I could use my revolver today.” 

Raising your brows some, you murmur, “I’m sure you’ll get the chance eventually.” 

“Let’s hope, for everyone’s sake, that I do.” 

Together, you enter the shop from under the awning of its porch. A few townsfolk were on the outside sitting at the benches by the main door, and they eyed you both oddly as you entered. Only you seemed to notice, as Sadie walked past with no hesitancy or acknowledgment, determined as she went inside. 

“Ah! Customers!” the shopkeeper lights up from where he was straightening items on the shelf behind him, turning to you both, “You came at a lucky time! Those dolls I have in the middle of the floor are half price. Unfortunately, I ordered too many—” 

“We ain’t here for no dolls,” Sadie growls lightly. 

The shopkeeper blinks, voice catching in his throat, “O-Oh... Then... What could I help you with?” 

Sadie holds out her hand, and automatically, you place the list within her flattened palm. 

Once in her possession, she practically slams it down on the counter, making the poor shopkeeper jump as she eyes him coldly. 

“We need everythin’ on this list,” she informs him. 

When the man doesn’t react, she huffs, growing impatient as she slides her hand away. 

“Well? Are you gonna stand there, or are you gonna begin loadin’ us up outside?” 

“Oh! Y-Yes, sorry! My apologies!” the man takes the list, almost shaking in Sadie’s abrasive presence, “My son and I will begin workin’ on this right away!” the man looks over his shoulder to the door that is in the left corner of the chop, “Jerimiah! Come out here!” 

The door swings open, and a boy no older than fifteen appears, wide-eyed and nervous as he approaches the shopkeeper. 

“Yes, papa?” 

“Help me get this together, we’ve got work to do!” 

Jerimiah nods, and he is then ushered by his father from behind the counter out into the shop. As his son rushes to go begin collecting loaves of bread per his instruction, Sadie stops the shopkeeper. 

“Excuse me, sir, but I was wonderin’,” the man pales some, “Do you sell clothes here?” 

“Y-Yes... I have dresses in the back—” 

Sadie’s voice grows dangerous, and she hisses, “I don’t want dresses.” 

“O-Oh yes, of course... I— I have some other options as well... If you could just—” 

He shakily points to the opposite corner of the store, and you and Sadie turn seeing where there the back wall ends about three feet before it meets the other side. It allows a small back area to extend past it with a small door to what see,\ms to be an enclosed room behind the shelving you see. 

“I have t-two changing rooms there with clothes to select from. You can head in there to try on what you like...” 

“Good,” Sadie smiles, the appearance of her teeth making the expression far from friendly, “Thank you.” 

The man is too terrified to respond, and Sadie leaves him be in his petrified state to look at you. 

“So, Wolf... How do you feel about givin’ me some pointers?”

**\---**

Now clad in her new clothes, Sadie steps outside, tucking in the rest of her yellow everyday shirt into the hem of her brown jeans as she looks to you.

“So, what do ya think?” 

“I think ya look good, Sadie. And if anythin’, comfortable.” 

“You got that right,” she snorts. 

The blue neckerchief she’s picked for herself is tucked into her pocket, the end of it blowing lazily in the lumbering breeze as Elijah and the shop owner work to fill the wagon at the side of the store. And, once tucked, her hands move away from her shirt to grab the bit of fabric to place into the new satchel at her side. 

With her new look completed, you can see how she has come into herself with a simple change in wardrobe. Her confidence seems amplified now, especially as a few lingering townsfolk eye her oddly, and she meets them back with a pointed amount of fire. She seems unafraid of the judgment, and if anything, welcoming of it. 

The shop owner comes up to you both a few minutes afterward, his brow covered in sweat, and his thinning hairline clinging in strands and clumps along the exposing expanse of his scalp from the summer heat and exertion. 

“That should be everythin’,” he tells you, glancing over to Sadie, “Unless there was anythin’ else you wanted?” 

“Nah,” Sadie waves a hand dismissively before placing it on her hip to mirror the other, her squinted eyes regarding the wagon, “Reckon we got just what we needed.” 

The shopkeeper seems satisfied with the answer, ducking his head before scurrying off to meet his son who gazes at you and Sadie strangely from the porch of the shop. Your attention is piqued on the pair as the shopkeeper grabs his son by the arm, guiding the perturbed boy of his back into the reclusion of his shop. 

“I got a feelin’ you n’ I are a bit of a concept here,” you murmur to Sadie as your eyes shift to the men who sit outside of the shop, their gazes just as leering and lacking any sort of decency in them. 

“Let ‘em stare,” she hisses, not even acknowledging them as she heads towards the wagon, “Be a shame if all I did didn’t garner me an audience.” 

You can’t help but smirk and chuckle, to which Sadie sends you a quick wink as she heads over to the side of the loaded wagon. You follow, and together, you both lean against the wagon, grateful for the slight shade that the brim of your hats offers in the pressing summer heat. Crossing your arms, you look out to the rolling hills of Lemoyne that expand past the city limits of Rhodes while Sadie grabs a cigarette from her satchel, lighting it and taking a deep breath before pushing smoke past her chapped lips. 

As she does so, her brown eyes move to you, and she nods once in acknowledgment, her fingers encasing the end of her cigarette delicately. 

“So,” she starts, raspy voice low and only loud enough for you to hear, its humorous tinge having you glance her way, “You n’ Arthur.” 

Shifting on your feet, you steel yourself a fraction, “What about it?” 

“Aw, nothin’. Just... You two are quite a pair from what I’ve heard.” 

Humming impassively, you offer up a dismissive sniff, “I’m sure you’ve heard a lot of things. A lot of which is most likely untrue.” 

“Yeah, most likely,” she echoes teasingly, “Listen, I ain’t a spring hen. I’m not dull nor am I blind. I may have taken a minute or two to get back on my feet, but... I can tell you two are somethin’ else.” 

“If you’re askin’ about what we are, then I couldn’t tell you.” 

“I’m not askin’ for specifics,” she blows out a lungful of smoke, the gray cloud dissipating and growing opaque until it clears with the scent of burnt tobacco in front of you, “I’m just askin’ because I saw how you two were a few days ago. Now, you seem tolerant of one another. I’m just curious, is all.” 

Sighing, you adjust yourself, pressing your back against the wagon and looking out to the swaying, overgrown grass ahead of you, “Curious as you may be, we just had an argument is all.” 

“Must’ve been some argument,” Sadie taps the length of her cigarette, allowing it to shed the ash that was collecting on its simmering end, “He looked like you had just about shot him with the way he moped.” 

“So I’ve heard...” 

“You know, a lot of people in camp don’t even know why it happened. I figured Charles did, ‘cause he was with you. John too. But they wouldn’t say anythin’ to anyone who asked.” 

“Did you?” 

“No,” she says easily, and her natural reply has your hackles lowering from where they had risen out of suspicion, “A lot of them, I think they treated it more like gossip. They were more concerned as to why the two people who were most attached to each other’s hips couldn’t even bear bein’ ‘round one another. Some were concerned, like the girls, or Hosea, but everyone else? Not so much.” 

Squinting, you look at Sadie, “But that doesn’t explain why you didn’t ask.” 

“It didn’t feel like my place. ‘Sides, not like I had anyone to ask.” 

You quirk an eyebrow, pushing further, “I’m sure anyone would’ve told you what they knew... Trust me, it ain’t hard to get them spittin’ rumors.” 

That gets a chuckle out of Sadie, but it quickly dies out, losing to her pensive expression and her hard-set gaze as she tosses the spent end of his cigarette into the fiery orange soil below her feet. 

“You don’t exactly understand, Wolf... I’m not one of you lot.” 

“Maybe you’re not part of the Van Der Linde’s. Hell, I don’t exactly want to be counted in that lot myself. But that doesn’t mean you’re not counted in some way. You’ve been here almost as long as I have, honestly... It’s actually kind of surprising you don’t have more of a defined place with us.” 

She smiles solemnly. 

“That’s because I don’t want one.” 

Frowning, your brow creases, and you shift on your feet, your voice growing quieter, “Why not?” 

“I... I don’t want it. After Jake,” you say nothing, listening to Sadie as she speaks, “I had a place. One all my own up in the mountains. I had an amazin’ husband, a happy life. I used to play the harmonica for us at night when he would fix the fire. We’d just sit there, doin’ nothin’. We didn’t want for more than each other’s company. I had my place at his side and on my land and I didn’t want nothin’ more.” 

Her voice grows gritty, cracked and heavy with pain as she continues. 

“I had a place. And during that blizzard, those _damned O’Driscolls_ wanted to bring Hell upon the earth. They attacked my husband when he was out in the barn, and I tried to help him. But they had other plans... They shot him. Right in front of me. I couldn’t do anythin’...” 

Her face grows dark, her sorrow and loss quickly morphing into the ragged heat of fury and agony, and you can see how she clenches her fist at her side as her words grow tight and clipped. 

“They locked me in the cellar, and I had to hear them party in my cabin for two days. No food. No water. Havin’ to hear them laugh and eat the stew I made us for dinner, and them talk about what they intended to do to me once the storm broke... I felt like I was losin’ my damn mind. And I guess... in some ways I did. When Arthur found me after they killed those bastards, I was swingin’ a knife around and screamin’. I probably looked mad...” 

She looks to you, expression grim and determined. 

“Because I had a place, Wolf. But it got taken from me. Jake was taken from me. And while Arthur saved me, and he brought me into this gang, I’m not a part of it. All I’m seen as is the grievin’ widow who had everythin’ she cared about stolen from her, and she's broken for it. Like I accepted what happened to me. I hate that. I hate that it’s all I’m seen as. Because how can you truly make a place for yourself in this world when others only make one for you?” 

You hum, and softly you whisper, “I think if there’s one thing I’ve learned for that sort of thing, it’s that you meet their expectations with disappointment.” 

Sadie snorts, shaking her head, “Ain’t that the truth...” 

“Listen, Sadie... I’m so sorry you had to go through that. That... God, I can’t even find the words for what happened... But... You’re honestly probably one of the strongest of us. I don’t think I could make it through somethin’ like that.” 

There’s a slight twinkle in Sadie’s eyes as she looks to you, lips upturned, “But you have. Don’t think I haven’t heard or seen your escapades while I’ve been here. You’re a damn strong woman too. Don’t cut yourself the credit.” 

You smile back at her, enjoying the conversation you’ve had when you hear someone approaching. 

Instantly, you and Sadie raise your guard, and as you lean off the wagon, looking to its end to where the sound of boots on the rusty soil below grow louder, you see Sadie’s hand go down to the Colt at her hip. 

Before she can draw it though, Arthur appears, looking at you both as you let out a small sigh of relief. 

“Why are you two lookin’ at me like I’m gonna ask you to hand over your coin purse?” Arthur asks, and he doesn’t miss Sadie’s hand dropping back down to her side from where it had once been perched expectantly on her pistol, “And what’s with the clothes?” 

“Listen, we’re women in Lemoyne. It don’t get more dangerous than that,” Sadie huffs, “And I would much rather be in clothes I’m comfortable in than damned dresses. How can you kill a man in a dress?” 

“Don’t think a dress has stopped anyone before, but... Still, no need to look so startled,” Arthur looks at the wagon and all of the goods placed into the back, “So we’re all good to go?” 

“Should be. Otherwise, that shopkeeper is gonna be mighty regretful.” 

Arthur whistles, raising his hands in mock surrender while you in Sadie go around the horses to the other side of the wagon, “My my, Mrs. Adler. Remind me not to get in your crosshairs.” 

“Be smart, and you won’t,” she tuts. 

You hop onto the bench seat, taking your place beside Arthur as he gathers the reins. Looking down, you see Sadie hang off the side of the wagon, gripping on and using the metal step bar to stand on as Arthur begins to reverse the wagon back into the road. 

As he adjusts the drafts that lumber the load under his guidance, you voice your own curiosity. 

“So, how did your first talk as a deputy of the sheriff go?” 

Arthur groans a bit, and you hear Sadie snort at your teasing while the man moves the reins, getting the drafts to pull forward now that they are facing the road in which you came in on. 

“Just fine,” he says as the horses lug the wagon forth, now allowing you to exit Rhodes. 

“What did you talk to him about?” 

Arthur sighs lightly, his shoulders falling some, “Somethin’ Dutch wanted... He’s... He’s rather eager to get us started on these two families. He’s convinced the way we can earn an in with either of them is through Beau and Penelope, despite my misgivings on the subject.” 

With it growing a little tight, you voice your next question, “So I’m guessin’ you talked to him about his original proposition?” 

“I did... He... He wasn’t too happy that we were shootin’ down his plan. ‘Specially on the Beau end of things,” Arthur all but growls, “I told him that it was foolish to just rely on the odds of Beau lettin' us in his pocket to clean it out by seducin’ him there. Let alone that the Braithwaites would even let me past their door. I don’t think it would work like he was hopin’ it would with us.” 

From your side, Sadie pipes up from where she holds onto the wagon, and she leans forward enough for her and Arthur to make brief eye contact past your lap, “Seduction? Seriously? What are you two to him? Snakes with apples in their garden?” 

“He seems to think so. But ain’t nothin’ ever good come of snakes,” Arthur mutters, “Except maybe that they eat rats.” 

“Well, I don’t think there would be a _rat_ that would be worth our time with them,” Sadie tells you both as you come upon the fork in the road, and a few men on some horses are coming up its length, heading towards you as Arthur guides the drafts in the direction of camp, “Don’t you think things are a bit too pressin’ with the Pinkertons to go chasin’ after rumors like he’s dreamin’ of?” 

“Well, they both seem affluent, and they must’ve been made of money at some point to have the land that they have, but... who’s to say what they are made of now.” 

As the men on the horses approach you both, coming to ride alongside the wagon, Sadie grumbles, “We’ll just have to see, won’t we?” 

“You lot from around here?” one of the men asks— he looks drenched in sweat, his worn, black plaid shirt clinging to his skin like the red bandana at his neck, and his smile feels just as slimy as he looks between you three, “Don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” 

“We’re just movin’ through,” Arthur states bluntly, “Just had to get some supplies in town, is all.” 

“So I see. Seems like you have quite a few things! Say, you lot with anyone else?” 

Without pause, Arthur answers bluntly, “No. Just us.” 

“Oh, good! That’s just gonna make this easier then!” 

The man laughs, nodding as his other friends flank the back of the wagon. You feel unease grip at you, and you can’t help but start adjusting yourself, your hands subtly slipping towards your carbine strapped to your back. 

Arthur notices, and you can see him brace himself, the air growing tense and thick around the wagon. He keeps the drafts moving, knowing better than to slow or stop them. 

You end up passing the curve you needed to take to get back to camp, and your stomach only sinks as Arthur glances between the suspicious crowd that you’ve garnered. 

Cheekily, the man looks to you and then Sadie, his eyes gleaming with a nasty sort of hunger that makes your skin crawl, “Say, partner, do you know about the tax here?” 

Bewildered and a bit annoyed, Arthur grumpily echoes, “Tax? What tax?” 

“Well, friend, it’s a local tax. Nothin’ necessarily official, but... See, we’s the Lemoyne Raiders. We kinda run this area, and we have a tax for lettin’ you through,” the men around the wagon quickly bring their guns into their hands, now aiming them at you all as Arthur curses under his sharp breath, “So if you could kindly just let us have this wagon here and let us get to know your friends—” 

“Like hell you’d do either,” Sadie seethes, and she is right across from the man as he rides adjacent to the wagon with his horse. 

“I don’t think you understand—” 

Without hesitation, Sadie raises her leg and kicks the man, hitting him and his horse in a way that causes the sickly nag underneath him to begin bucking as he collapses into the dirt. 

“Yeah, I’m sure you don’t think, ya bastard!” 

“Get ‘em!” the man shouts, being left behind as his sickly horse runs off, leaving him stranded in the cloud of dust Arthur draws up in his wake. 

Arthur whips the reins to the draft horses, causing their thick muscles to flex harshly and their hooves to dig into the dirt as they try to gallop off as quickly as the weight of their load will allow. With the new speed and rough start, the wagon creaks angrily, and you slip your carbine over your shoulders, moving to the middle of the bench as Sadie hefts herself onto the new space you just made for her. 

Bullets zing past your heads, the quick whistle of them almost hitting you causing your hands to slightly shake as you maneuver yourself, adjusting your position as Arthur hunkers down, moving the reins to one hand as he goes to grab his Colt with the other. 

“Just drive!” you shout at him, and with a nod, he allows you to take control, steering the rickety wagon as best as he’s able in the hail of gunfire and with the instability of the road before you, and over your shoulder you yell, “Sadie, I’ll take the left, you take the right!” 

You hear Sadie’s Colt fire off, and a man tumbles off his horse, spluttering on the ground as his thin Morgan sprints away, shrieking. 

“Already on it!” 

You fire, hitting two of the men who were attempting to come close to the side of the wagon. Their eyes are fiery and full of hate, and you barely recognize them with men as they shout after you, guns raised and firing poorly. 

“You bastards can’t even shoot!” Sadie seethes, and she rapidly fires his colt into three men that came to her side, “I feel like I’m just wastin’ by bullets!” 

“You bitch!” one of the last two raiders left screams, but before he can do anything else, Sadie lodges a bullet in his mouth for the trouble. 

“You got the last one, Wolf?” she asks, and you take your aim. 

“Yeah!” 

Pulling the trigger, your carbine fires, the shot landing perfectly into the man’s chest and causing him to let out a gut-deep noise as he falls off his horse. And when he hits the ground, he does not move, his colt galloping away into the trees around you both. 

Now free of the impending fire and chase, Arthur slows the drafts. The poor horses are obviously overworked, foaming white from the mouth and sweating. Their muscles tremble some, and you feel awful for them as Arthur pulls them and the wagon over to where more of Flat Iron Lake’s shores are a few yards off from the road. 

They are still breathing roughly as Arthur gets the wagon to stop, and he quickly jumps down alongside Sadie, leaving you to work your way off of the bench as the two work on freeing the panting drafts from their harnesses. 

“Jesus, that was too close,” Arthur huffs. 

“What do you mean close? We had those bastards dead and regrettin’ messin’ with us in just a few minutes.” 

“I’m not sayin’ it was a close call. I’m sayin’ that was too close to camp. Rhodes too,” Arthur explains, hurriedly dropping the black leather harness of his brown draft onto the grass before leading the horse over to the water, “We’re lucky they didn’t find us before then and we dealt with ‘em this way.” 

Snorting, Sadie walks her own freed draft to the edge of the water, grabbing some handful as you fetch two mugs from the back of the wagon, “Well, lucky or not, they’re dead now. We ain’t gotta worry about it.” 

“Says you... Jesus, woman. You kinda went for blood back there.” 

“I did go for it,” she says, not a trace of regret in her voice. 

You reach them, handing them each a cup to take lake water out with. They pour each cupful onto the drafts, helping them cool down as they drink, trying to recover from the endeavor. 

“Well, just... keep reined in, if you can. We can’t afford massacres like that every day, let alone so close to camp or town.” 

Sadie doesn’t seem bothered by Arthur’s concern, and instead, she shrugs as she continues to cool down the draft before her. 

After a few minutes, the horses seem to be in better shape. Their once laborious breathing has settled some, and they don’t seem close to fainting or dropping as they were. Arthur lets them graze and drink for a bit, the horses relaxing under a nearby tree. They enjoy the shade as the midday sun beats down on you three relentlessly, and Arthur pops his collar, shirt clinging to his skin as he sits on a stump, overlooking the lake. 

You sit beside him in the grass, and you both look to see Sadie leaning against a tree that is a few feet away, and much closer to the edge of the water. She’s smoking another cigarette, letting her leisurely breathes of pale, gray smoke out into the air every so often as mayflies swirl about her. 

You look on, watching her as Arthur smokes his own cigarette, the man as quiet as he is pensive. 

“Do you think she’s okay?” you ask quietly, your hand fiddling with a weed that you had plucked beside you, the poor plant worn miserably under your anxious fiddling. 

“I think she’s about as okay as she can be, considerin’. She’s come a long way since I happened upon her in Colter.” 

You frown, nodding, “She told me about what happened with her husband... Right before you got back to the wagon.” 

“Didn’t think she would talk about it,” Arthur admits, voice even as he takes a quick pull from his cigarette, exhaling its smoke before he speaks, “Seems like somethin’ she would carry with her for the rest of her life.” 

“She will. She’s already carryin’ it now,” you tell him, “But I imagine that it’s somethin’ you can’t just let go of, no matter how much time passes, or how you try to come to terms with what happened. There really isn’t any way to accept tragedy when someone caused it for you.” 

“Ain’t no way to accept a loss. Not exactly. Don’t think anyone has ever accepted anyone bein’ gone. They just get used to it. They just get used to knowin’ there’s nothin’ that can be done to bring ‘em back,” Arthur pauses, sighing, ‘Somethin’ like that? You hold onto it. You let it fester,” he frowns, his face creasing as it glints with sweat, the brim of his hat only offering so much comfort from the heat of the sun, “Ain’t nothin’ darker than love forcibly turned into vengeance.” 

You frown softly as you look to Sadie’s back, and you can see how her shoulders are drawn up, held tightly and closed in. She looks so small and fragile on her own, but at the same time, you know that a beast certainly dwells within her. 

But then you glance at Arthur, and the man, he seems to carry the same weight. And you know better than anyone about the beast that lurks inside of him. 

You know it. You’ve seen it, met it. You’ve called it by his name. And as he looks to Sadie, his eyes narrowing and you can see a look of understanding pass over his face, and you know that, just like Sadie, it was born to be a hideous scar on his soul. 

“You feel for her,” you murmur, and you can tell by the way that Arthur’s eyes drift to you that the statement is balancing precariously between your focus being shifted from Sadie to him. 

“Yes. I do,” he says, his voice is particularly shallow, but it is obvious that its superficial air speaks for something much deeper and profound, “And I’m sure you relate, too.” 

Frowning, you look back to Sadie to see her running a hand along her face, her shoulders hunched as your expression sinks further, “Yeah... guess I do.” 

You think of your father, about the rage that all but consumed you after you realized the cause of his death. That his passing hadn’t just been from bad luck and bad health. But rather a man who, despite all of your gut screaming at you otherwise, trusted to care for him in the ways you could not. 

It must be the cruelest thing — for if only the love we held for the things we lost could’ve saved them. And maybe, just maybe, the world wouldn’t be as treacherous and heartless as it is. 

But it is human. To love. To experience heartbreak. To _feel_ the emptiness and tragedy that is loss. 

And, it is also human to have revenge as the desire it all brings. 

You know that without question you would sacrifice anything to have your father back. To make up for the life that was taken from him unfairly by a doctor who went past the morality of his position, and longed for money over the welfare of those who sought his council. 

But it is through the cruelty, through the reality of life and its counterpart death, that such a thing remains impossible no matter how often it is wished to be different. 

For Sadie, it is something hard to swallow. To know that Jake was taken from her as he was. So violently, so sudden. And to know that, for all of the anger she feels, the frustration, the agony — she will never get vengeance on the men who were inhuman to her husband. 

And a small part of you wonders. Wonders about how it would have been for you if you hadn’t gotten Francis. If Arthur had shot him. If Garrett had killed him instead of the other way around. 

To want nothing more than to get even, but to never get the opportunity. And for revenge to only be a desire that is left to fester from the wound that bore it. 

From across the way, Sadie tosses her spent cigarette into the water, sighing and curing under her breath as she comes over to both you and Arthur. She’s reserved, bringing up a familiar wall you have seen since her first few days here. But her sadness has been replaced with something else, something much more volatile and headier, but it disappears as soon as it came. 

“Reckon the horses have recovered,” she states, nodding to the two drafts a few feet away under the canopy of shade, “We should hook ‘em back up. Get back to camp before they think we ‘bout moved into Rhodes.” 

Arthur nods, standing and tossing the blunt of his own cigarette into the dirt, using the tip of his boot to crush it up, “Sounds like a plan to me.” 

The three of you head to the horses, but like before, Sadie and Arthur manage to get ahold of the drafts before you do, and you follow them back to the wagon as Sadie begins to talk. 

“So... is somethin’ like this pretty common for errand runs?” 

The question gets a light chuckle from Arthur, but he shakes his head, “Normally, no. But those bastards sure did make it interestin’,” pausing, Arthur looks at Sadie as they both begin to hitch the drafts back up to the wagon, “Say, you did pretty well, too. Didn’t know you could handle yourself like that.” 

“I told you, I’m no placid housewife. I ain’t gonna sit ‘round n’ cut vegetables all day because I didn’t before. That sure as hell ain’t changin’ now.” 

“Well, I guess I can put a good word in for ya. See if you could get out more often, especially so you ain’t around Pearson all day.” 

“Good,” she huffs, “If I spent another hour in that man’s presence, then we’d be having boar stew for dinner.” 

Arthur laughs, and you offer a slight smile at Sadie’s curt response before you are all hopping onto the wagon again. 

Just like before, you get onto the bench with Arthur taking the driver’s side and the reins. Sadie still holds onto the side, but one of her hands holds onto her Cattleman, her brown eyes looking around warily as Arthur pulls you back onto the road with a lurch. 

“So, those were those infamous Lemoyne Raiders,” Sadie somewhat shouts so that Arthur can also hear her, “Really didn’t put up too much of a fight or problem like everyone insisted they did.” 

Arthur laughs, “Maybe not this time, but I’ve heard they can be nasty in their own right... They’re leftover from the civil war, thinkin’ that they can act how they want like the south didn’t come back with its tail between its legs at the end of everythin’. They can be some nasty, supposedly righteous folk. ‘Specially if you ain’t what they like.” 

“Charles mentioned that to me... that it’s harder in the south for him. Same with Tilly and Lenny, and I’m sure Javier too. It’s almost like the war didn’t end,” you murmur, “Makes me fear for ‘em since we’re down here.” 

“It ain’t ideal. Then again, none of this is...” Arthur murmurs as he takes the wagon down the main trail cutting through the trees right before camp, “I’m just hopin’ that we can get the money we need and that we can leave quickly and quietly.” 

“With the nature of Dutch’s plans with the Braithwaites and Grays, I doubt that’ll be possible,” you mutter. 

Arthur sinks his head some as you break through the trees, seeing Javier and a few others at the edge of the camp as you and the wagon approach, “You’re tellin’ me...” 

“Oso, Loba!” Javier greets you both and then his eyes catch the sight of Sadie hanging off of the side of the wagon, Colt in hand, “Oh... and Mrs. Adler?” 

“The one and only,” Sadie huffs, and when Arthur gets the wagon to where it had been parked earlier, she hops off onto the ground. 

Javier approaches you alongside Bill and Pearson, who begin to offload the wagon, “Well, we were beginnin’ to worry about where you ran off to. Took you a bit to get back.” 

“There was a bit of a fuss right after we got outta Rhodes,” Arthur begins to explain, and as Javier’s eyes widen slightly, “It was quick n’ clean, and we did nothin’ wrong... Just had some Raiders try n’ _tax_ us, as they called it.” 

“Ah. We thought we heard a lot of gunfire about an hour or so ago...” the man nods in understanding, his eyes narrowing as he looks to the wagon, taking in the bullet holes in the sides of the wood, “Funny men, they are.” 

“They sure got a funny way of thinkin’ ‘bout the world and what they are in it, too,” Arthur comments with some grit in his voice, and you watch as Sadie goes to help unload the back. 

Sighing, Javier claps a hand onto Arthur’s shoulder, offering the fellow outlaw and you a small smile, “Well, it’s good to hear and see that you are okay.” 

“Trust me, I got bigger plans to die at the hands of those bastards.” 

“Bigger plans indeed!” 

You and Arthur turn at the sound of Dutch’s voice, as the man approaches you both, nursing a cigar in one hand a grin on his lips. Behind him is Molly, and her red lips are set into a nasty scowl, especially as her eyes shift to you. There’s an upset in them that you weren’t aware of, but is undoubtedly directed at you, and you frown at her, tilting your head in confusion until Molly redirects her glare to the back of Dutch’s head. 

“Dutch,” Arthur greets, a bit clipped as he steps forward, and Javier’s hand falls away from his shoulder while the outlaw goes in front of him to come closer to your side, “You seem rather chipper.” 

“That I am, dear boy!” Dutch beams, his eyes crinkled at their edges, “Things are finally afoot! And soon, we’ll be reapin’ the rewards!” 

Unconvinced, Arthur grabs at his belt buckle, shifting his stance on his feet and tilting his hips, “Is that so?” 

“Oh, now don’t sound so down about it, Arthur!” Dutch knocks his shoulder lightly, but Arthur doesn’t seem too entertained as Dutch hopes him to be — frowning, the man sighs, shaking his head as he brings his cigar closer to his mouth, “Did you talk to Sheriff Gray like I asked you to, at least?” 

“Yes. He was still pretty drunk. Though it’s no surprise,” Arthur shakes his head a bit in judgment before he continues, “Told me that he needs help at Caliga Hall, if we can give it to him.” 

At the news, Dutch’s eyes twinkle dangerously, “Caliga Hall? Already?” 

Confused, Javier asks, “What’s Caliga Hall?” 

“Why, it’s nothing more than the land that the Grays have lived on for generations, Javier!” Dutch exclaims, his excitement setting you on edge as his gaze fixates on Arthur, “I thought it was gonna be harder than this... But damn, ain’t they just handin’ us the key to the safe now.” 

“It ain’t like that, Dutch,” Arthur’s expression is pinched, but his correction does not lessen Dutch’s eagerness that came from comment, as though the words were nothing more than a tar pit he had fallen into, “He just wants us to check up on Beau. And he made it clear that’s all he wanted us to do. Ain’t no safes for us to be crackin’ open.” 

“Yet. But yes, dear old _Beau,_ ” Dutch gleams, and you don’t miss the way he looks at you when he says it — but he purposefully makes sure to not let his eyes linger, instead looking pointedly to Arthur as he asks, “How soon can you head over to Caliga Hall?” 

“I reckon we could go now...” 

“Then do so,” Dutch orders, his voice stern and losing the kind spark that his joy had given him, “See what Beau needs, and give it to him tenfold.” 

Arthur frowns, “Are you sure—” 

“Yes, I’m sure. Hosea is about to go to the Braithwaites over this moonshine of theirs that we got during the raid on that still. We need to hit them both at the same time, make them think the other is playing them.” 

“But it’s us in the middle pullin’ the strings,” Arthur grumbles, “Sounds perfect.” 

“It is, dear boy,” Dutch takes a puff of his cigar, his lips quirking upward around its thick length before he removes it, letting out a thick cloud of smoke before he chuckles, “A Yankee, robbin’ these bastards blind... Ain’t nothin’ better, Arthur.” 

Doubtful, Arthur murmurs, “If you say so.” 

“You’ll perk up about it eventually,” Dutch pats Arthur on the shoulder before he nods at you, “Ms. Broce.” 

Turning, Dutch faces Molly, who is only more furious as he lets out an angry and frustrated sigh. 

“Jesus woman, you really gonna linger like the plague, aren’t you?” 

“Don’t think I didn’t see how ya looked at her like she’s your new whore, Dutch! Her and that other trollop here n’ camp! You’re nuttin’ but a god damn liar an’ tramp!” 

Arthur makes a nasty face at Molly’s crude words, and your cheeks burn with both mortification and a bit of anger from her labels. 

Humorlessly, Dutch mocks her with a monotone voice, “Please, shout louder. I don’t think the entire camp heard you this time.” 

Molly makes a frustrated sound, and she follows after Dutch as he walks away, her shouts calling after him as she stays about a foot behind him in her pursuit. 

Arthur whistles and Javier says something low and in Spanish once they’re out of earshot. 

“Looks like chivalry is finally dead,” Arthur comments, and you look to him, making a small face that makes the man respond with a wounded, “What?” 

As Javier joins the others to keep offloading the wagon, you and Arthur walk away to his end of camp, and to where the horses are a few yards away from his tent. 

“You know, Dutch’s actions aside, Molly is hurtin’ right now, Arthur.” 

“She called you a whore.” 

“I’m not excusin’ that,” you say with some defense, “Just that I know what’s lead her to sayin’ it.” 

“Which is?” 

“Dutch doesn’t love her anymore.” 

Arthur frowns, and as you pass by his tent, and in turn, by Dutch’s, you can see him try the weight of your words as you hear Dutch and Molly’s shouting match that his behind the veil of canvas surrounding them. 

“I’m sure he cares about her still—” 

“Carin’ ain’t the same as lovin’,” you tell him as you crest over the slight hill at the edge of camp, and it’s then that D’or and the other horses come into full view, “And he has a funny way of carin’ about her if he’s not gonna be honest with her. Let alone act as he as does towards other women right in front of her.” 

Surprised, Arthur asks you, “So you’re on Molly’s side?” 

“I’m not on either side. I just empathize with why she’s upset,” you explain, and you both stop walking, and you’re both turned towards each other as you continue, “I’m not sayin’ she’s right in how she’s actin’. Honestly, I’d prefer not to be called a whore because I happen to be one of the women he’s taken interest in—” 

“Dutch is goin’ sweet on you?” he pauses, “He’s goin’ sweet, and didn’t even say anythin’?” 

The question is icy and hollow, and you swallow thickly as Arthur immediately looks to Dutch’s tent, his eyes burning with something heavy before you catch his attention back by catching him by the shoulder. The man didn’t even realize that he had taken a step in that direction, and he blinks a few times, almost surprised by the depth of his reaction. 

“I wouldn’t say he’s goin’ sweet,” you admit, cheeks burning a little as Arthur stares at you — his gaze is so pinning that you have to look down at your boots, unable to keep in touch with the muddled expression brought with his unwavering gaze, “He’s just... He kept visitin’ me when you and I weren’t talkin’... I guess mostly it was to convince me about his plans with Beau and the Grays, but still...” 

Arthur growls, and he grips onto your hand, squeezing it for a moment as he grits out, “Did he do anythin’? Did he say anythin’?” Arthur’s eyes shift back and forth like he’s trying to take you in for the first time since your admission, and that he’s worried that something other than the truth was amiss. 

“He never did anythin’ more than offer odd conversation,” you say, your words drawn and slow so that Arthur could properly process your reassurance, “You’d have known the moment he did anythin’ more than that.” 

Letting go of your hand just as quickly, Arthur blinks, clearing his throat as he looks to the grass swaying by his boots below. 

“Just... didn’t know what happened,” Arthur mutters, his voice vulnerable in a way you haven’t heard it in a while. 

“Well, it doesn’t matter now. It’s done with,” it offers little comfort to Arthur, and you can see the way his shoulders tense, and his lips purse. 

“Let’s hope it is...” 

Upset, the man stomps forwards towards the horses, leaving you behind some to sigh softly under your breath as you catch up. 

Poor Kieran is still tending to the horses, unaware of the cause for Arthur’s upset, but still in the path of it as the outlaw approaches. 

“Oh, Arthur!” the former O’Driscoll offers a weak and shaky smile as he steps back from Taima, “Did you come to practice more with Bedwyr?” 

“No. We’re gonna saddle him up.” 

This catches Kieran off guard, and he stutters for it, “Y-Y-You sure?” 

“’Course I am,” Arthur says without hesitation. 

“’C-Course...” 

Despite being a bit unsteady from nerves, Kieran manages to round up Bedwyr easily. The scarred stallion follows him with nothing more than a few clicks of Kieran’s tongue, while the former O’Driscoll approaches the Walker that Arthur had been using up until now. 

Quickly, he begins to work the saddle off of the Walker, and once loose, he places it onto Bedwyr. 

The Trotter and Friesian mix is standing proudly, looking almost eager to head out when Kieran brings up the neck rope that had been used earlier this morning. Looping it over the stallion’s head, Bedwyr’s ears prick forward, practically waiting for guidance from either man. 

“Lemme get D’or for you,” Kieran shakes out, and you open your mouth to thank him, but before you can, he scurries away, nearly tripping over a rock in his haste. 

Sighing sadly, you look over to Arthur, “You know, you could try and be a little less dauntin’.” 

“If I was mad at him, he’d know,” Arthur points out, “But I’m not. And I haven’t been a bastard to him in a minute, neither.” 

Letting up, you duck your head, “Suppose that counts for somethin’.” 

“It should, by god...” Arthur mutters. 

It’s then that Kieran returns with D’or, and you smile softly as your beloved Trotter approaches. 

Upon her arrival, Bedwyr truly perks up, taking in your beloved D’or and even moving past Arthur a little to get closer to her. 

“Whoa, boy!” Arthur pulls back a bit on the neck loop, stopping Bedwyr from where he was attempting to approach the mare in front of him. 

You can’t help but laugh, seeing Bedwyr stomp his foot once out of irritation but doing nothing more as Arthur reins him back in. 

“Seems like he likes her,” you state. 

“Well, she’s a good horse. Up in years and not any spring filly, but she’s in good health. She could have a foal even now. I’m sure he knows that well,” Kieran says. 

“Well, she isn’t in season, boy,” Arthur pats Bedwyr’s neck, chuckling at how Bedwyr passively lifts his lips to show his teeth at D’or, the mare not even acknowledging his existence, “She won’t care much for you until then.” 

Laughing, you go to saddle up on D’or, “Even when she was she didn’t care much for any buck comin’ her way. She’s always been stubborn like that.” 

“You want forever, boy,” Arthur tells his stallion solemnly, “Just cut yourself off now and spare yourself the trouble.” 

Arthur’s consolation for Bedwyr gets a right laugh out of you, and Kieran shakes his head as both you and Arthur saddle up. 

Looking at Arthur, he tells the outlaw, “Interest in a mare or not, ride him easy. His wounds may have healed, but sometimes he gets a temper or is impatient. I also wouldn’t trust walkin’ behind him any time soon.” 

“Duly noted,” Arthur states, grabbing the neck rope and having Bedwyr shift underneath him, “Let’s just hope he’s less trouble than he’s worth.” 

Kieran waves you off, and with a click of his tongue, Bedwyr begins to trot underneath Arthur. Compared to D’or, the stallion is about a head or so taller, and you have no doubt that it’s the Friesian in him. And since what parts that could grow back could, the stallion’s hair curls and whips in the wind as you near the edge of the camp, and you come out onto the main road. 

Despite all of his scars and horrid past, Bedwyr looks amazing and content. It brings a smile to your face to see how far the horse has come. 

“So, Caliga Hall,” Arthur starts, knocking you out of your thoughts, “You ever been there before? It’s right by Saint Denis, if memory serves right.” 

“No... Ain’t been this far southeast, I’m afraid... My dad kinda steered clear of Saint Denis when I was growin’ up.” 

“Good. Ain’t nothin’ worth goin’ there for anyway. It’s a rotten city.” 

You snort as you glance at Arthur as you begin to pass through the trees surrounding the trail at the mouth of camp, and now, you pick up the pace, moving to a light gallop that both Bedwyr and D’or handle well. 

“Rotten?” you echo, “Surely that’s an overstatement.” 

“It ain’t. And if you ever happen to go to Saint Denis, you’ll see why. That city is the epitome of what is wrong with modern society.” 

With a huff, you tell him, “Now you’re just soundin’ like Dutch.” 

“Well, that’s because I tend to agree with him in that aspect. Modern society ain’t nothin’ different than what we have now. Except men and women abide by laws in a superficial sense. I can tell you somethin’, Wolf. Laws only exist in some people’s eyes for the sole purpose of breakin’ ‘em.” 

“Some may say that’s your perspective,” you argue. 

Arthur chuckles, “Maybe so. But that ain’t exactly true. I know I’ve raised hell on earth many a time, but I still have some degree or notion of morals. There are some things that I respect. But there are men out there worse than me. And you know what? They’re always gonna exist, no matter what society does to abhor such a thing. Because at heart, society makes us more callous than we had ever been on our own.” 

As you begin to ride up on Rhodes, you ask, “And what do you mean by that?” 

“Remember how I told you I lived on the streets for a while? When I was about fifteen, right before I ran into Dutch n’ Hosea?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Well, I grew up somewhere in California. Can’t even remember the name now, but I was there for a brief time. Mostly on the outskirts, because they asked fewer questions, and my father preferred the blind eye,” Arthur starts to explain, “I ran into town when I first ditched my father. Maybe stayed there two nights. And you may not believe it, but I tried beggin’ for help first.” 

You frown, your heart sinking a little, “You did?” 

“Yes. I didn’t want to steal, I didn’t want to fight for survival. I just wanted help. I wanted to have food that wasn’t rotten or thrown to the rats, a bed that wasn’t trash I’d piled against a brick wall in an attempt to sleep at night,” his head hangs some as you begin to enter Rhodes, this time passing by the general store instead of stopping as you head down the strip of buildings, “I don’t know how many people I tried to stop on the streets, that I tried to get attention from, but I can tell you how many did stop. How many helped. And it was none of them.” 

“Shit,” you curse, “Seriously?” 

“Not a damn one of them, Wolf. And after two days of constantly starvin’ and beggin’, I stole a bag from the general store full of whatever I could grab, and I took off on a stranger’s horse. Never went back after that, and avoided anythin’ like it ever since.” 

Sorrowfully, you add, “I’m sure the law comin’ after you didn’t help neither.” 

“It didn’t. Thought it was stupid, huntin’ a young boy down because he did what he had to do to survive. That’s the problem with society. We think we’re well off enough where help is beyond us, or it makes us so desperate that any attempts to save ourselves is criminalized. With the way things were, I felt about feral at that point, and I almost was when Hosea and Dutch found me... I probably would’ve died not too long after, if they hadn’t.” 

“So Saint Denis... It’s a lot like this town you were in, back when you were in California?” 

“Pretty similar, but also different... Granted, it’s been some years... Probably close to ten now, without properly countin’... Definitely was in my twenties last I went there.” 

You whistle, shaking your head, “And how old are you now?” 

“I’m in my early thirties... Think... Lord... Probably gettin' up on thirty-five soon.” 

“You’re about a decade older than me, then,” you laugh. 

“Oh, way to make me feel like an old man,” Arthur teases, but he shakes his head, “How old are you?” 

“Should be twenty-six by now, depending on the month,” at that, you blow air out of your mouth at the thought of how much time has passed, “Jesus, I don’t even know what month it is.” 

“All I know is that it’s 1899,” Arthur jokes, and you can’t help but laugh. 

“Hey, we learned earlier that those Raiders still think it’s 1861 here,” you tell him with a smile, and Arthur shoots one back at you, “What a sad lot we are, not even knowin’ the month.” 

“Sad part is, it could be December for all we know, and then it won’t be 1899 for long.” 

Snorting, you fire back, “Sure as hell don’t feel like December.” 

“I don’t think the south really gets any seasons ‘part from hot n’ muggy, or hot n’ dry.” 

As you wipe the sweat that has been valiantly collecting under the brim of your hat, you find yourself inclined to agree. 

As you exit Rhodes, the road tapers a little, and you see it split off into two directions, left and right, framing along the edge of a white fence that you come upon. Arthur slows Bedwyr down, and it’s then that you see the gate that is before you both, directly at the fork in the road. Beyond it is a path that leads down into the land beyond, the brown soil if it trailing further and further away until it stops directly in front of a large house you can make out in the distance. 

“Is this it?” 

“Yeah, there’s a sign here.” 

You look to see a sign on the white gate, reading: _Caliga Hall. Mr. Tavish Gray, owner. Trespassers will be prosecuted._

“Geez. Welcomin’, aren’t they?” Arthur mutters to you as two armed men approach the gate. 

One of them has his gun somewhat at the ready, a repeater by the looks of it, while the other approaches the gate, stopping right behind it as he tilts his head up and nods at Arthur. 

“What’s your business here?” 

“I’m here on behalf of Sheriff Gray,” Arthur states, and he lets go of Bedwyr’s rope with one hand to point at the bronze badge pinned to his shirt, “I’m one of his new appointed deputies.” 

The man hums, grabbing the edge of the gate to pull it back, “Right... Mentioned you’d be comin’ by...” 

Arthur nods, taking Bedwyr’s neck rope back into his grasp while you file in behind him. 

“Say,” the outlaw looks to the man as you begin to walk onto the dirt path heading towards the Grays estate, “You know where Beau is? The business I have is with him.” 

“’Fraid not. But the boys by the house should. Beau’s always runnin’ around somewhere over there. We’re posted up front, so I never get to see.” 

“Right. Thanks.” 

As D’or finishes passing through, the man shuts the gate back, cutting it off and allowing the fence and the line of trees planted behind it to once again become a barrier to the outside of the property. 

You ride at Arthur’s side now, looking and taking in the plantation for what it is. Unlike the rest of Rhodes, the soil seems to be brown here, but painfully dry. A slight orange haze from the roads outside of the property hangs in the air, and you watch as a few crows caw and fly away from the plot of corn that grows tall and green to your left. Aside from that, however, it seems like the rest of the tilled land sports a lot of tobacco, the plants almost to bloom, but their leaves browning and spotting in a way that speaks of drought as you and Arthur trot further down the way. 

The wagon-worn path framed by large bushes begins to lessen in its length as you approach the house. The Grays have a two-story colonial building made from red, clay bricks and, its black shingled roof is topped with two, proud chimneys. The second story balcony that overlooks the front of the yard is white in its construction, and you can see an old man peering at you from it, leaning against the railing with curiosity as two guards approach you from their posts right outside the house. 

“I was told you two may know where Beau is,” Arthur looks between the two men, who scowl lightly at his words, “Sheriff Gray sent me over here to talk to him.” 

“Oh. He’s by the barn, behind the house. Closer to the end of the property, not too far. If you end up at the Kamassa River, you’ve gone too far, partner.” 

“Thanks.” 

Using the path that cuts to the left and right of the house, you and Arthur go right, circling around the side of the main house to go behind it. From his watchful perch on the balcony, you can see the old man eye you both, watching until you are both out of sight. 

“Guess that might be Mr. Tavish Gray,” Arthur says quietly, just loud enough for you to hear as you ride side by side, “Nosy ol’ bat, isn’t he?” 

“Long as he doesn’t press with his curiosity, I don’t mind him,” you mutter back. 

That gets a snort out of Arthur as you continue your search for the barn. 

Behind the house are two buildings built exactly the same and directly across from one another. They are on the outside of the small courtyard that is built in the center, and you guide D’or past it, and towards the edge of the property. 

You pass by a few workers houses along the way, about four small buildings initially built for the bare minimum, as you know that this is where the slaves were formerly housed on the plantation. Now, things are different, and the slaves are now paid workers who are clad in worn uniforms instead of rags, and the former slave houses are now their quarters for when they are not tending to the fields. 

Outside of one, a man sits, sharpening his hunting knife as he looks up to you. Like most of the other workers, he’s clad in his uniform, and he wipes his brow with the gray sleeve of his shirt as he leans forward to stare at you and Arthur as you pass. 

Breaking your attention away from the man, you then notice how others are also staring, and you swallow thickly, pointedly keeping your eyes ahead to where you can see the red and white barn in the distance, right beside another field of corn. 

“I think we should try n’ make any time we spend here brief,” you whisper to Arthur, feeling your skin crawl under the scrutiny of so many gazes, “I feel like we’re nothin’ but a show at a theater with how many eyes are on us.” 

“Keep it cool, and we’ll be fine,” Arthur assures you, and he sends you a quick look to try and calm you a little, “We just gotta find Beau, see what we need to do, and we’re gone. Simple as that.” 

“Ain’t nothin’ been simple for a long time,” you mutter bitterly, and it’s then that you come upon the barn. 

The door is slightly ajar, and you and Arthur stop your horses before dismounting right in front of it. You can hear a few cows inside, and the heavy scent of livestock and hay hits your nose before you’ve even entered. 

But also, you can hear someone else, too. 

“Oh... What am I to say? My education— you’ve failed me!” 

Sending a strange look to Arthur, you and the outlaw approach the offset door, with you taking the front as you begin to step inside the barn. 

It’s there that you find what you suspect to be Beau Gray, sitting on a hay bale and gripping tightly into the curly mop that is his dirty blonde hair. He’s holding papers in his hands, and at the sound of Arthur’s throat clearing to announce his arrival, the man shrieks, his arms flailing back as he jumps in fright, his papers now tossed into the air. 

Arthur can’t help but chuckle, with Beau looking distraught as you shake your head. 

“My lord, you love to give anyone grief, don’t you?” 

“Usually do.” 

Sighing, you come forward, looking at Beau as you drop to your knee in front of the hay bale to gather up the papers that had been flung about. 

“Sorry about that,” you tell him sincerely, picking up the sheets that are now all strewn about. 

“Who are you?” Beau looks down at you, his gray eyes shifting from you to Arthur, and his cheeks as red as the vest he wears over his white, striped shirt, “Who let you in here?” 

While he questions Arthur, you begin to look at the pages that Beau had tossed, taking in the scrawl that adorned the pages with a growing curiosity. 

“I’m Arthur, n’ this is Wolf,” Arthur states bluntly, “And we were sent here by Sheriff Gray. Said I needed to see what you were up to.” 

“Oh... Oh my, lord and above...” Beau’s eyes widen, and instantly, he is dropping to the ground beside you, “Let me just get those!” 

“Whoa whoa whoa!” Arthur comes closer as Beau snatches the papers you had grabbed out of your hands, his eyes squinting on the young Gray dangerously, “What’s with the rush, kid?” 

“He doesn’t want us to read the letter,” you tell Arthur, smirking slightly, “It’s a bit... of the heart.” 

“You didn’t!” Beau complains, his eyes widened. 

You see the fear in them though, and you shake your head. 

“I’m not here to rat you out, Beau. I don’t care that you’re writing love letters to—” 

Beau shushes you, his face flushing yet again, “Please! Don’t say it loudly... If... If my father were to hear... Or my grandfather, Tavish... My, that would be the end of me...” 

Arthur looks confused as you go to stand, coming up beside the outlaw who sends you a quizzical look as Beau rushes to collect his letter back again. 

Leaning close, you whisper to him. 

“It’s to Penelope,” and when Arthur pulls back a little, looking only more lost, you make sure to add, “Last name Braithwaite.” 

Arthur’s eyes widen some in understanding, and he leans back, fingers looking on his gun belt as he smirks. The situation obviously humors him as much as it does you, and you both watch on with slight smiles as Beau finishes collecting his damning papers. 

“My my, kid. Seems like you got yourself into quite the situation.” 

“Yes... It’s quite the secret.” 

Chuckling, Arthur jests, “Is the secret that you’re secretly normal?” 

Confused, Beau blurts, “What?” 

For his trouble, you knock Arthur hard on his side, and his joking is short-lived under your scrutiny. 

Backing down, the outlaw relents, “Okay okay, so you’re in a tight spot about this... it’s kinda stupid if you ask me.” 

“Oh, I _know._ I know that better than you think. But I just... I can’t stop lovin’ her,” Beau says, his voice light despite all of the turmoil within him, his deep Georgian accent rolling off of his tongue like the heat rolls in mirages outside, “You promise to me that you’re not tellin’ a soul that’s related to either of us?” 

“Or hope to die,” Arthur tells him, but it’s not too serious from the way he chuckles. 

“I’m serious,” Beau begins, looking pale in the face, “If either my family or Penelope’s found out, it would be... Well, I would be disowned. Completely. No money, no home. And as for Penelope... Well, I’m sure they would send her off and never speak of her again... I’m not sure how the family would handle it with each other though, hers or mine... It’d be the scandal of the century.” 

Huffing, Arthur rolls his eyes, “I don’t care about some love bullshit, kid. I got bigger problems than you two sendin’ love letters to another.” 

Scolding, you murmur, “Arthur...” you glance to Beau then, “I promise that we won’t tell a soul who would make this an issue for you.” 

Frowning, Beau settles a little at Arthur’s bite and your attempt at smoothing it over, “Well... I suppose it’s better that you see it as a nuisance than a problem to be dealt with...” he hangs his head for a moment before setting his letter on the hay bale behind him, only then to come forth with his hand extended in an offer to shake, “Beau Gray.” 

Staring at his hand for a moment, Arthur moves his eyes to Beau, looking rather unimpressed, and leaving the gesture without response. 

Rolling your eyes lightly, you shake Beau’s hand, the touch professional and brief before Beau beams and looks at you both. You can tell that Arthur isn’t humored anymore, and he looks rather grumpy for the fact that you decided to not leave Beau hanging. 

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Beau.” 

“And you two as well!” Beau looks to you then, “It’s nice to have some souls who won’t damn my own for my love! Which, frankly, is pathetic. Loving your enemy is unacceptable, but getting arranged to your cousin isn’t?” sighing wistfully as you and Arthur share a tense look, Beau sits down back onto the bale of hay, taking his letter back up into his hands and flipping through the pages with a longing expression, “It’s hard to keep this a secret...” 

“Kid is there somethin’ you needed help with, or—” 

“Actually, yes!” Beau grins, only for it to falter some as he continues, “I was, well... I was needin’ this letter to be delivered, if possible...” 

“Just a letter?” you ask, a bit surprised. 

Groaning, Arthur shakes his head immediately at the proposition. 

“No, kid. We aren’t the post office.” 

“Could you, if I paid you to be?” 

Arthur’s frown lessens only a fraction, “Depends...” 

“I can pay you handsomely,” Beau grins once more, “See, my family has money, and while they are unaware of Penelope and I’s interest in one another, I can pay you nicely for your services.” 

“How nice we talkin’?” 

“Twenty dollars a letter.” 

Arthur whistles, “Quite a lot of money for a letter. You sure must love her then.” 

“Oh. I do,” Beau says hopelessly, but in a cheery way, “She’s... She’s so amazin’... Both progressive and bright... Why, I’d say she’s the exact opposite of the Braithwaite image I’d been given my whole life. Even then, I reckon she’s the best that has come out of that family in a long while. You know, I think your wife Wolf here is a lot like her in that aspect.” 

Sending Beau a sharp look, Arthur clicks his tongue while you flush a little, “Listen, kid, I’m not here to hear you gush about who you’re sweet on, and the fucked up family she’s from. Just give us the letter, and we’ll be on our way.” 

“Oh, of course!” Beau stands back up, going into his pocket and fetching the money, his hand reappearing with the bill in hand, “Here,” he holds it out to Arthur, who promptly snatches it from his grasp, “Just... I ask that you be careful... My grandfather has been suspicious for a while, and I know my dad is too... I mean, that’s why he sent you here, after all.” 

“He just told me to look up on you, kid,” Arthur murmurs. 

“In this family, the only time they show concern for you is if you’re provin’ to be a problem,” Beau reaches behind him, and he hands you his papers, now folded and pieced together, “Just make sure that there isn’t one, please.” 

“Sure...” 

Arthur takes the letter, only to place it into his satchel as Beau lets out a long breath, going back to sit sadly onto the hay bale. 

“If only I could ride over there and deliver it myself, but the course of true love is a rocky one... In the evenings she sits under the gazebo all day up until nightfall, by the edge of the water near the house. I bet she looks stunning, as always,” he says pathetically, “Oh, how I wish I was you, sir.” 

“Trust me, you do _not_ want that,” Arthur grumbles, “Just... we’ll deliver your letter. Enough mopin’.” 

Genuinely, Beau smiles, nodding at you both, “Thank you both... I do appreciate it.” 

“As do our wallets,” Arthur fires back, and then he looks to you, “Come on.” 

Following Arthur back out of the barn, once you are out of earshot of Beau, you raise an eyebrow at the outlaw as you saddle up on your horses. 

“You didn’t have to be like that,” you inform him. 

The man sighs, shaking his head as he turns his horse. You mimic the same instruction, having D’or match Bedwyr’s movements and keeping the mare and stallion at each other’s sides. 

“I think he’s too dumb for his own good...” Arthur starts, voice low while you walk past the workers and head back in the direction you had come in with, “I mean, we’re absolute strangers. I could wreck his entire life just by throwin’ this letter on the porch to be read.” 

“But you’re not doin’ that,” there’s an edge to your words, a small warning to the outlaw. 

Squinting at you with an expression of slight audacity, Arthur mutters, “’Course not. He’s just... too trustin’. I meant it when I said that I have bigger problems than a forbidden love affair. And we do. Just think it’s funny, is all...” 

“How is it funny?” 

As you pass by the front of the house, with Tavish still on his perch and eyeing you as he did when you came in, Arthur answers your question simply, “That some of the most complicated people have such simple problems.” 

You hum, thinking those words over, “Guess you’re right... It could’ve been somethin’ much worse or complicated.” 

“And it could get that way, if we’re not careful,” you’re about halfway up the path leading back to the main road, and you can still feel the eyes of both of you as the one guard already moves back to the gate to open it for you, “I got a feelin’ that, despite all my misconceptions and grievances, these folks ain’t as dumb and as playable as they seem.” 

You quiet as you reach the gate, passing through quickly and heading back onto the main road, and Arthur moves Bedwyr into a perfect leisurely gallop. The stallion responds beautifully, as does D’or at his side to match his pace. 

“Maybe they aren’t as foolish as Dutch likes to think they are, but at least all we’re havin’ to do is run a letter to Penelope.” 

“Guess there’s some comfort in that,” Arthur sighs, “But not much...” 

Frowning, you glance at him, “You know, you rode him pretty hard ‘bout it... Why? He’s just a young kid in love.” 

“He’s easily in his twenties like you, and he’s carryin’ a very poorly hidden love affair with his family’s biggest enemy. It ain’t just a young kid n’ love.” 

“But isn’t it, at heart?” 

“Sometimes a situation doesn’t give you the courtesy of context, or it doesn’t spare you the trouble it brings. Beau may be young and in love, but he’s still bein’ foolish. Penelope too.” 

Scoffing, you shake your head, “Like you haven’t been an idiot for love before.” 

A bit frazzled by that, Arthur snips back with, “And you haven’t?” 

“Yeah, I have been,” you murmur, “I think it’s human that, at least once in our lives, our heart decides it’s actually a brain. It comes as naturally as breathin’.” 

“I doubt that has happened to you,” Arthur mutters, “You’re way too in your head to ever let somethin’ like that slip.” 

Blushing a little, you cough once, clearing your throat as you pass by Rhodes, this time taking a small road that leads off by its end, “Well, you’d be surprised... It happened when I was eighteen.” 

“So nearly ten years ago?” Arthur glances to you, brow quirked curiously, “And not once since?” 

“I wouldn’t say that,” you murmur, “Just that it happened for someone I thought I loved.” 

“And the other time? Or times?” 

“My father,” you tell him, “It doesn’t always have to be that kind of love. I mean, it’s how I got into this mess, isn’t it?” 

Arthur hums in thought, nodding, “But the first time... When it was someone else...” 

“It was a boy I’d never seen before in town... God... he must’ve been in his early twenties or so, maybe almost my age now... but he managed to turn my world upside down the first few times I ran into him... My dad didn’t even know about it, and back then, he was really strict.” 

With a bit of humor, Arthur teases you, “So you snuck out to seem him, didn’t you?” 

“Only way I could see him... My dad kept me shut in the cabin most of the time, but work would call him away. And when it did, I just snuck out, made sure I was back before he was ever meant to be. Thankfully he had a schedule that was easy to memorize, but... Yeah... And lookin’ back on it now, knowin’ about what happened with my mom... I could’ve easily been taken or spotted. Let alone if that boy meant well.” 

Quietly, Arthur asks, “Did he?” 

You smile at the memory, nodding, “Yeah... He did... ‘Course, we were both young, so it’s kind of like a book's story with all of the inexperience and excitement, like it was almost fiction, but he was kind. He saved me a couple of times, got me a few gifts... It was nice.” 

“And what happened to him?” 

“Life did. Like it always does,” you murmur sadly, “He had to leave. He wasn’t from town, and he was travellin’ with his family. They ended up movin’ on, and of course, he went with ‘em... I felt left behind, and I’m sure my heart broke that day, so I never really wanted to do anythin’ like it again. I always fear that’s just what’s gonna happen. That they’re gonna leave, n’ never come back.” 

Sincerely, Arthur murmurs, “That’s no reason to wall yourself off, Wolf. Not everyone is gonna do that.” 

“I know they’re not. But I just fear it... I guess I always have, seein’ my dad get as miserable as he did when I thought my mom had died... Bringin’ back her horse to the cabin and tellin’ me she got robbed n’ killed on the way home... Watchin’ him get drunk almost every night since and never bein’ the same... His paranoia, his fear of losin’ me too... Just... feels easier not getting' attached like that again.” 

“The worst thing you can ever do to yourself is to fear somethin’ before it even happens,” Arthur tells you, his voice steady and sure, “Life ain’t meant to be lived by turnin’ down everythin’ that can ever go right for you out of the fear it can go wrong. Can it? Yeah. But it doesn’t always. And that doesn’t mean that no should always be your answer.” 

Chuckling softly, you tell him, “Sounds like you’ve lived with your heart on your sleeve.” 

“Kind of have... I mean, not in a while, but... when I was young?” Arthur sighs wistfully as you come upon what seems to be the other plantation, “I was the biggest lovesick idiot you could meet.” 

You want to press on further, but it’s then that you take in the armed guards walking the perimeter of the white fencing surrounding the property. As you crest over the hill, your eyes catching their own, you can tell that there is nothing welcoming about your arrival. 

“Stay on the main road,” Arthur informs you, turning right to run with the road that is adjacent to the fencing of the property, “Gotta feelin’ we’re gonna have to sneak our way in on this one.” 

Fields and field of tobacco are to your side, rolling like the hills of the land and swaying in the breeze. The blazing, orange soil is tilled as far as your eye can see, with you catching Braithwaite Manor in the middle of all of it. 

Unlike the Gray’s estate, the Braithwaite Manor is a massive two-story house that does not fit the sharp confines of a colonial style. Rather it’s boisterous, large and reminiscent of the Parthenon with its grand Georgian and antebellum scale. A column every five feet spans the house on all its sides and corners, just as a porch for the second story wraps around under the cover of the extended overhang of the roof. You can see the property from every angle and at any time from the house, and you swallow thickly as you look back at Arthur, especially as you see the guards walking around its length. 

“Gonna be rather hard... They got eyes and guns scoutin’ the entire place...” 

Sighing, Arthur shakes his head, “Didn’t Beau say that gazebo she sits in was at the front of the house? By the water?” 

“Yeah, pretty sure he did...” 

“Well, he said she stays there until nightfall... Maybe we could hide out somewhere close. Wait until then,” Arthur glances to you, “Shouldn’t take but a few hours till sunset.” 

“Where would we go until then?” 

And, as if fate listens, near another fork in the road that leads to the front of the Braithwaite Manor is what looks to be a small abandoned house. 

Glancing to you as Arthur slows Bedwyr a little, he gestures to the sad building, “Think that’ll work?” 

Sighing, you relent, “Suppose we don’t have much choice...” 

Slowing D’or, you fall a little bit behind Arthur as you approach the abandoned house. 

Vines overgrow and cover the front, and a few of the windows are boarded up. You can see, however, that the boards that had formerly held the front door in place have been broken or completely removed, leaving behind their silhouettes on the sun-bleached and weathered wood as Arthur halts Bedwyr completely. 

As you come to a stop beside him, the outlaw hops down, grabbing his knife out of the holster he has on his gun belt. 

Eyeing Arthur oddly, you question him. 

“What are you doin’?” 

“Think squatters have been here recently... Just wanna make sure it’s clear without makin’ a fuss before we hide up in it till evenin’.” 

Nodding, you go to dismount D’or, but Arthur stops you. 

“Nah, just me,” he tells you, looking up to where you remain seated on your golden Trotter, your face drawn up in confusion, “They tend to ambush, and I’d rather it just be me in the house. That way you can finish the job if it goes south, and we can only use when we actually need to.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, swallowing thickly as his words get your nerves up a fraction, “Just... don’t be an idiot.” 

Smirking, he jokes, “Ah, it’s too late for that.” 

The grip you have on D’or’s reins tightens as Arthur approaches the door to the abandoned house, holding his knife at the ready as his body tense in preparation for any oncoming assault. It’s a hard moment, holding your breath fearfully in your lungs, as Arthur turns the knob of the door and slips inside. 

You feel like your breath holds the entire time you wait, and what is truly just minutes feels like an hour or so as you can only look at the front of the abandoned house with worry. 

But eventually, Arthur emerges, his knife sliding back into its holster on his belt as he holds the door open, nodding to you. 

Finally, you drop off of D’or’s saddle, your boots making a soft thudding noise as you land in the overgrown grass below. Arthur joins you back in the unkempt yard, stepping over to Bedwyr and grabbing his neck rope back into his hand. 

“Let’s put the horses behind the house... We’re still close enough to the fence line of the plantation that a guard may spot them on their rounds.” 

“Sounds good...” 

Together, you and Arthur walk side by side, with your horses to the other as you take them behind the abandoned house. 

Back here, you can tell that the former squatters who occupied this house had thought of the same thing. There is a questionably-made trough by the back porch with fresh, clean water— which, going by the drought that Lemoyne seemed to be experiencing, you know had not gotten there naturally from any recent storm. There is also the remnants of what seemed to be a bale of hay that had been placed for some horses to graze upon while they were tacked up outside, with pieces from what is left all about and strewn across the grass. 

“They didn’t leave too long ago,” you murmur. 

“No. I figured that when I saw the state of the house... Seems like it’s been abandoned for a long time though, apart from the occasional use from squatters. But I figure this place is so close to the Braithwaite Plantation, they probably check it every so often. Gotta make sure no one’s too close for comfort.” 

You hum, hitching D’or to one of the back posts of the house. Thankfully, with the angle of the sun, there is no direct sunlight to overheat her, and she flicks her tail happily as she begins to treat herself to the grass that was overgrown by the house. 

Bedwyr is also taking advantage, the black stallion walking over to the trough to help himself to some water as you and Arthur head up onto the back porch. 

Again, Arthur is the first to entire, the back door leading into the deplorable kitchen, barely lit by the sunlight that manages to come through the broken or loose boards on the windows. Your skin crawls a little with the state of the house, with cobwebs that are so old they have collected dust like much of the belongings that have remained untouched. 

But more than anything, it’s been destroyed by what has been messed with — as debris lies about the floor like leaves scattered under their former branches in the fall, and any furniture has been broken into or broken down as the squatters saw fit. You can see, in the right corner of the room by the cabinets that have been gutted of their doors and items, there even a line with clothes left on it, too new to be original or older. 

Thankfully, the wood stove seems to be in surprisingly usable condition, although it is sooty and obviously has gone without a proper clean in quite some time. Still, you and Arthur could probably make a small fire here, and you could have a warm meal before you were off to sneak onto the Braithwaite Plantation. 

Arthur seems to have a similar idea, going over to the stove and taking a few pieces of wood that were piled to its side to place into its metal hearth. You watch him, standing next to the kitchen table that’s littered with cigarette butts and empty beer bottles and cans. 

As the man pulls his matchbox out of his pocket, he glances back over his shoulder to you, “Well, make yourself at home for the next few hours.” 

Snorting lightly, you look around the room, taking in the sagging ceiling doubtfully as you hear Arthur scrape the match to light it, “This place ain’t been a home in a long time.” 

“Maybe not. But it’s ours now,” he pauses, coughing awkwardly, “Well, it’s somethin’, I guess...” 

You’re not sure what to say, and the air grows a bit tense and far heavier than you’d like. 

As your cheeks heat, you clear your throat softly, “I, uh... I’ll check the rest of the place out.” 

Arthur says nothing, no working fervently with the fire at the stove, just to occupy himself as you pass by to investigate the rest of the abandoned house. 

There’s a slight hallway, past the kitchen, and its end is marked with the front door. A weathered oil lamp is tacked against the wall, the glass of it cloudy with both age and dust as your eyes squint in the dark. 

There are two doors, one to your left and one to your right, and so you start with one at random. Going left, you turn the knob, pushing the door back as it opens to slightly hit against the inner wall of the room. 

Under your feet, the old boards creak as you step forward, eyes adjusting a bit as some sunlight filters in through a small hole in the roof. The air is musty and thick, and you cough a little at the musk it seems to bring as you let your intrigue drive you. 

Truly, there’s not much to see. It’s a bedroom, with a tattered mattress tucked in the far corner of the room, both disgusting in condition and practically disintegrated. The blanket that had been placed across it is moth-eaten and stained, and what was once surely a vibrant and red color is now sad and dulled, turning brown from the state that its in. 

In the corner opposite the bed and directly in front of you as you walk in is the remains of a tall wardrobe. Its doors have been smashed in and broken, and the drawers are either askew from the ransacking, or completely gone altogether. Clothes are strewn about the floor, mildewing and rotting from where the hole in the roof has allowed water to seep in over time. 

Stepping a little further in, you see a vanity, tucked against the wall in the corner to your right. Its mirror, hazy and dulled, is cracked, and the varnish that had once made the wood a proud, dark statement is now weathered and chipped. 

Approaching it, you watch yourself in the mirror as you come closer. 

Despite the state of the mirror, you stare at yourself, looking at your face for the first time in some time. Exactly, just how long had it been? Probably not since Blackwater... Before the ferry even arrived, and everything began to fall apart. 

Surely it hasn’t been _that_ long, has it? 

Maybe it has, maybe it hasn’t... But still, you can’t help but scrutinize what you see. 

There are bags under your eyes, and you swear there are lines on your face that hadn’t been there before. Your eyes also seem older and tired, and you let out a small sigh as you take a step back from it. 

And as you do, you feel a board sag under your foot. 

Fearful of it breaking, you jolt back, finding the rest of the floor solid and sturdy. Confused, you take the toe of your boot, testing about the wood, and when you find the board that had felt off, your eyes widen as it slides under your ministrations. 

Leaning down, you now use your hands, getting your nails lined up along the slight space between the boards surrounding this singular piece, and you are surprised to find you could lift it from the gap. 

And when you do, it reveals a small space underneath, swathed in dust and obviously having remained untouched until you just happened to discover it. Inside, there is a small box, metal by the looks of it, and as you’re driven by your immense curiosity, you go to remove it. 

It’s heavy, far heavier than you expected, and you notice a lock firmly holds the box shut. Scoffing lightly, you grab your hunting knife, remembering breaking into the small safe that you and Arthur had found at that homestead back when you were trying to learn the ropes when the gang was still in Blackwater. Mimicking the technique, you dig the tip of the knife into the lock, moving it how you can until you hear a satisfying click of the inner mechanisms letting go. 

A triumphant smile stretches your lips, and you open the lock box just to have your mouth fall open upon its contents. 

You hear the floor creak at the door of the room, and your head shoots up, your breath catching in your lungs as you take in Arthur standing in the doorway to the room. 

His eyes widen as he takes in the lock box you discovered, and he takes a step forward, saying, “You found somethin’?” 

“Yeah... Just... Board felt funny when I walked on it,” leaning back on your legs, you place your hands onto your legs, your hunting knife left on the floor as you stare at your discovery, “Guess this was why.” 

Arthur comes in, dropping down to squat on one knee as he sees what is inside the lock box. His eyes go comically wide, and he whistles, a smile pulling at his lips. 

“I’ll be damned,” Arthur chuckles, reaching out and then stopping himself, as though he’s riddled with disbelief for what he’s seeing, “You found a gold bar.” 

As you take in the gorgeous and bright sheen to the metal, you swallow thickly, “Seems that I have.” 

Arthur senses your nerves, and he looks to you, brows furrowing, “Why ain’t you excited? This is pretty rare, Wolf.” 

“I just... I know it’s worth a lot,” you breathe out roughly, “Makes me nervous to hold onto it.” 

Nodding in understanding, Arthur removes the gold bar from the lock box, humming as he studies it, “Well... Maybe you won’t have to.” 

You gut twists a little, and you look at him strangely, “You’re not takin’ it, are you?” 

Arthur’s response is immediate. A genuine sense of offense passes over his face, and his brow narrows, while his voice is steadfast and sincere. 

“No. I ain’t takin’ it from you, and I never would, okay? It’s yours and no one else’s,” he says as he sets the bar back down into the lock box as his attention moves fully to you, his tone and the way he conveys it leaving no room for argument. 

You break a little under his pressure, eyes darting down with a little shame of speaking out. 

But then, Arthur’s voice softens, and you can tell he’s concerned as he asks, “Wolf... Why would you think that?” 

“I’m not tryin’ to be greedy, but... I know that isn’t pocket change. And it’s not that I even care for it. I’ve never cared much for money, long as I have what I need, but... not many others in the gang are like that... Dutch isn’t like that.” 

As his eyes widen a little in understanding, Arthur murmurs, “You think Dutch would take it from you...” 

“Maybe not that, but I wouldn’t trust him about it... or Micah. They... They seemed more concerned about makin’ or even takin’ as much money as they can instead of tryin’ to get what they need. What _we_ need... If they found out I had a gold bar? . . .” you pause, swallowing thickly, “I just know it wouldn’t go over well with them...” 

Arthur’s face falls a little, and you can tell he shares the sentiment, “Well, you found it and they didn’t. In my book, that makes it all yours.” 

“In his book or even in the camp ledger, I don’t think Dutch would think so if I brought it back to camp,” you murmur. 

“Then don’t bring it back.” 

Blinking, you eye Arthur, “What?” 

“There’s a fence, right outside of Rhodes. Dealt with him a few times, and he’s as trustworthy as a man in that business can be,” Arthur informs you, “We can go there after we deal with this letter errand for Beau... You can sell the bar to him, and you won’t have to worry about anyone pannin’ for gold in your pockets.” 

Looking at the outlaw, you whisper, “You’re sure?” 

“Yes, but it also ain’t up to me for what you want to do,” Arthur then closes the lock box, hiding the gold bar as he picks it back up, only to hand the lock box back over to you, “You got lucky, Wolf... You shouldn’t have to fear that gettin' taken away from you.” 

Your heart catches in your throat as you take the lock box, your hands barely brushing against Arthur’s as you do so. His eyes linger on your own, and you are the first to duck your gaze down to the lock box as his hands slip away. The weight of the gold bar inside the lock box is reassuring, keeping you grounded as your cheeks heat and your voice is all but a whisper. 

“Thank you...” 

Getting to his feet, Arthur stands beside you, and you look up to see him hold out a hand to lift you to your own. 

“Come on. I made a fresh pot of coffee for both of us.” 

Smiling warmly, you take Arthur’s hand, feeling the outlaw pick you up off the floor. The skin of his palm is calloused by warm against your own, and your mouth goes dry as he gets you off of the floor. But once you are standing, Arthur lets go, offering you a small smile of his own before he turns, walking out of the bedroom and leaving you reeling before you’re able to gather yourself back together. 

A few seconds later with flushed skin, you follow the outlaw back into the kitchen, and you can hear the small fire crackling away in the woodstove. 

Arthur is already there, and you can see two, clean metal mugs that he is pouring the freshly brewed coffee into as you walk up. 

“Thank god I had the mind of me to pack these in my saddlebags,” he tells you with a chuckle, leaving you to awkwardly stand at the mouth of the hallway as he goes over to the table. 

With one broad sweep, Arthur clears the table for you both, and he sets your coffee down onto its worn surface before he pulls two chairs up to its sides and gestures for you to come over. 

“Well, it’s only gonna get colder the longer you stand there.” 

“Right...” 

You approach, setting the lock box down onto the table between you and Arthur as you take your seat. The outlaw doesn’t make himself comfortable, however, going back over to the stove and to where you notice he has brought out his small, cast iron pot. He’s got a few cans opened next to two empty bowls too, mostly vegetables from what you can tell, and he’s mixing them together as his back faces you. 

“I’m makin’ a soup for us,” he tells you, “Ain’t nothin’ fancy, but it’s what we got.” 

You drop your head, looking back at your coffee and taking it into your hands, feeling the warmth of it seep into your fingers, “That’s mighty kind of you...” 

“I think a warm meal and fresh coffee would do us wonders,” Arthur says, looking to you somewhat from over his shoulder, “I have a feelin’ the next few days are gonna be rather busy...” 

“That I’m sure of, with the way Dutch talks of how we’re gonna play these two families,” you quiet some, and you stare at you acquired lock box with some amount of dread, “I got a gut feelin’ it’s us who are gonna get played.” 

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Arthur says, and you hear the sound of him stirring the soup he’s made for you both, “Only time will tell. And until then, we can only do what we can to make sure we don’t end up getting' the fingers pointed at us for it.” 

“I just... I think it’s pretty ridiculous. Like we’re chasin’ after ghosts here,” you admit to Arthur, leaning back in your chair, “It’s like Dutch saw a phantom of money in them, and we have to prove it’s actually there and he didn’t just imagine it.” 

That makes Arthur snort, “They had money at some point. Damn families live in mansions.” 

“Maybe so... but I don’t buy it. It feels too perfect. Too forced.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“Back when I lived by Blackwater, I dealt with a lot of the... _affluent folk_ that lived there... Rich people love to flaunt what they have. That’s part about bein’ rich. You have to let everyone know you are. Everything has to be expensive just because you can buy it. Fancy clothes, rare horses, massive houses... Why, there was a man in town who talked about buying himself a car. A _car,_ Arthur!” 

The outlaw shakes his head, but the smirk he sends you over his shoulder speaks of the humor you instill in him, “Ain’t rich folk just mad?” 

“Yes! And that’s my point,” you settle a little, sighing, “It’s all about appearance. Always. People have to know you’re made of money because you’re just like everyone else if you don’t. And rich people? They can’t stand that... But you want to know what they can’t stand the most?” 

“What’s that?” 

“When they become everyone else,” you tell him, “When the money is gone. When there isn’t anythin’ but a façade to protect them from reality. They know the truth, but everyone else doesn’t. So, they will try anythin’ and everythin’ to keep it that way.” 

Arthur considers this, taking the pot of stew off of the stove to bring over to the table, “So you think that’s what’s happenin’ with ‘em? They’re lyin’ to everyone?” 

“The Grays? Well, I think they’re close to havin’ to play face, and I figure their subsidy with Jolly Jacks is the only thing they got, even if their crops are lookin’ rough... But it’s the Braithwaites that I suspect are the worst off... I mean, why would everyone specifically call it a _secret fortune,_ ” you huff, watching as Arthur goes back to the counter to grab the bowls he had placed out for you both, “There’s no need for it to be tucked away as a secret! Everyone thinks of them as a rich family who’s lived here for generations. You yourself talked about how their house alone makes them look like they’re made of money... Why would they have a fortune they’re supposedly tryin’ to hide away as a secret unless it didn’t exist?” 

You can see Arthur pause, and his face draws up. 

He whistles, shaking his head, “Shit, Wolf... That’s... That’s a bit to consider.” 

“Then consider it. Plantations don’t make money like they used to. Not since the war was fought and they couldn’t use slaves to get free labor and it made everything all but pure profit,” you explain, “That’s why Havenwood wasn’t doing too well, and there wasn’t too much money left in it... If anything, it’s worth more for the oil Cornwall wanted than anythin’ else,” you eye Arthur heavily as he puts a spoonful of soup into your bowl, “This long drought we’ve heard about hasn’t helped... And with their workers needin’ pay, they probably aren’t makin’ money like they used to. Probably why she took up makin’ moonshine as she has. It was far too big of an operation from the way you described to be discretionary.” 

As he finishes topping your bowl, Arthur shakes his head, taking a seat and filling his own as he eyes you briefly, “You can make a lot of money off the books that way... It’s plausible.” 

“It’s far more than just plausible,” you say, taking a deep breath, “Dutch is foolish to try chasin’ after these families when we ain’t got enough reason to. It’s like buyin’ a horse just to realize it’s a mule when its too late.” 

“A mule and a horse are easy to tell apart.” 

“And so it should be with a bad decision and a good one,” you tut, “And yet, here we are.” 

“I don’t think this is all a bad decision,” Arthur murmurs as you eat your first spoonful of soup, “Could we have learned a bit more before we jumped in as we did? Yeah... But Dutch ain’t known for his patience.” 

“He ain’t known for success, neither.” 

Arthur chuckles, eyes twinkling a bit as she brings up another portion of soup, “You better be glad he didn’t hear you say that.” 

“Why? Does he not wanna hear the truth?” you raise a brow, serious, “I’d be more than happy to tell him.” 

Arthur grows a bit serious, “I wouldn’t recommend it.” 

“I’m not gonna run up on Dutch screamin’ my head off,” you assure the outlaw, seeing him relax a little in his chair, “But I also won’t pass up an _I told you so_ when this doesn’t work out like he’s sure it will.” 

“We’ll just have to see, Wolf,” Arthur murmurs, taking a deep breath, “We’ll just have to see.”

**\---**

“I really wish we told that little shit no.”

You can’t help but try and stifle your laugh as you tread through the murky waters of Flat Iron Lake. 

Unfortunately, the guards were still patrolling around the fences and the porch of the house, and every time you and Arthur attempted to sneak onto the property, having left D’or and Bedwyr back at the abandoned house to avoid such a thing, you were nearly spotted every time. 

Arthur had grown frustrated and began to stomp off towards the edge of the property. You were confused at first until he dove into the water, holding his satchel above his head to avoid getting the letter from Beau inside it wet. 

And so now, here you are, trudging through the water that’s at your chest, and you can’t help but cackle under your breath as you hear Arthur curse Beau under his own. 

“Twenty dollars,” he mutters, “Should charge him fifty.” 

“Arthur, we could’ve done this a better way, I’m sure,” you tell him, your humor bleeding through your voice. 

“No. It’s already late and we needed to get over to the gazebo before Penelope even _thinks_ about goin’ inside.” 

You snicker once more, and Arthur looks back over his shoulder at you. 

“You think this is funny?” 

“Y-Yes,” your chest feels compressed with the way you’re having to keep yourself quiet. 

Shaking his head, Arthur looks back in front of him, grumbling, “Romance better be fuckin’ dead after this...” 

You come upon a dock house, a gray in both construction and wear. Even in the evening light, with the dying rays of the sunset to your left losing way to the navy absence of twilight, you can tell it’s seen better days. The dock itself is a bit warped, with algae growing on the posts that are submerged in the lake water much as you are right now, and barrels litter its length. On one of the posts, a white pelican eyes you both like the oddest fish he’s ever seen before he takes off into the oncoming night. 

Once you pass the dock house, you see the Braithwaite Manor once more, now lit up by the orange light of oil lanterns that hang from the walls or the sides of guards that do their rounds on its large perimeter. 

It’s then that you see the gazebo, your eyes drawn to it like a moth to a flame as you see a lantern flowing on its own. 

“She must still be there, thank god...” 

Arthur pushes a bit harder, careful to be hasty without making too much noise or straining himself in his mission. You both breathe heavily, panting a little by the time you get close to the edge of the water, with a few, young oaks lining the banks as you slip up onto them. 

The gazebo is now only a few feet away, and underneath its teal canopy, you see a young, blonde woman sitting behind the white picket railing. 

“That must be her,” Arthur tells you, and he lets his satchel fall to his side, grabbing the letter from Beau out of it, “Come on.” 

Thankfully, the guards that are posted by the front of the manor are not close enough to see or hear you approach, so you are able to get closer and closer to the gazebo. And, right as Penelope shuts off her lantern, that’s when Arthur announces your presence. 

The man whistles softly, just low enough for Penelope to hear. She jolts a little, ruffling her white lace dress, but doesn’t shriek or do anything that would alert the guards to your arrival, but instead, she smiles softly as she eyes the letter in Arthur’s hand. 

“Did Beau send you?” she asks, her voice hopeful. 

“He did, I’m afraid,” Arthur tells her, dripping as he comes to the side of the gazebo, his hand lifting the letter for Penelope to take over the railing, “But don’t worry, made sure we were the only thing that got wet.” 

“You’re a gentleman, sir,” she states gratefully, and then she looks at you both, pausing, “Why don’t you come to sit up on the gazebo? I’m sure you need to rest after that swim of yours.” 

“Sure... Why not?” 

Penelope adjusts herself back into her seat while you and Arthur both go up the small set of steps leading onto the gazebo. Thankfully, there’s a bench to the side of Penelope’s chair, and you and Arthur both sit onto it while the young Braithwaite gestures to the small table that separates you. 

“There’s a pitcher of fresh lemonade there, on the table by my book,” she informs you both, “You’re welcome to have some.” 

Taking two glasses and grabbing the pitcher, Arthur dips his head in thanks. 

Penelope then turns her attention to Beau’s letter, reading it with her lip held between her teeth, and you watch as she tries to contain herself while Arthur hands you a glass of lemonade. 

You both sip on your drinks, looking to Penelope as she makes a frustrated sound, setting the papers down onto her thigh with a look of utter grievance. 

“Did he say somethin’ wrong?” Arthur asks, and you can tell he’s a bit humored by her reaction. 

“He’s a fool. Concerned for me, but a fool about it,” she sighs, setting the papers down onto the table and placing her fingers against her forehead as she looks out onto the water, “Men these days think women are nothin’ but props who are content about what they are.” 

“You n’ Wolf would get along then. She ain’t been a prop since I met her.” 

You can’t help but snort, and it catches Penelope’s attention. She looks to you, gaining a bit of excitement. 

“You aren’t?” 

“I try not to be.” 

“Tryin’ is better than acceptin’,” she states, and she sighs, taking out the blue ribbon that ties up her blonde hair, letting it fall about her shoulders freely, “While I love Beau to the moon and back, he just... doesn’t get it. It’s not that he doesn’t support me. He does. It’s one reason I love him. But... He doesn’t think it’s worth the trouble of me doing anythin’ for myself.” 

Confused, Arthur asks, “Like what?” 

“There’s a march that’s happening in the morning, in Rhodes. A march for women’s suffrage,” Penelope explains, a bit cautious as she eyes Arthur, “And I’m joinin’ them.” 

“Sounds admirable,” Arthur states, and the response surprises you. 

Penelope also seems pleased, taking in Arthur’s acceptance gleefully, “You know, it’s rare to find a man who thinks progressively as you do,” Penelope then smiles at you, “You’re lucky to have him as a husband.” 

Your mouth goes dry while Arthur coughs, but Penelope continues on before either of you can correct her. 

“Beau is progressive too like I said. He meets my passion with every ounce of fire that he can. But... He thinks it’s too dangerous for me to speak my mind.” 

Arthur nods in regards to the letter, “Is that what he said?” 

“If you want to be specific, he said he doesn’t want me to march. Says I’ll be seen and people will know that the Braithwaites have a young daughter who wants a voice for herself instead of the one they’ve given for her. And oh, what a shame that would be to the family.” 

She doesn’t sound bothered by the possibility, and you can’t help but ask, “Guessin’ you don’t care about that much.” 

“No. I don’t. This family is nothin’ but shameful,” she says, “Any fleck on our golden reputation is seen as a defect... And I’ve seen what my family has done to defects...” 

She seems sorrowful, and you narrow your eyes as she sighs deeply. 

Lifting her head, Penelope resolves herself once more, “Worse comes to worst, I’d be shipped off somewhere. Probably Ohio.” 

Confused, Arthur echoes, “Ohio?” 

“Yes... You ever been to Ohio, sir?” Penelope asks, and when Arthur shakes his head, she looks back at the lake, her voice as stern as her features as she continues, “Well, neither have I. But I have an uncle who lives there. He’s a bit of a black sheep, on account for him havin’ left. But he opened a factory, became successful. And now they tolerate him because he’s a vicious snob,” she laughs bitterly, “They would send me there, likely to work and die away in his factory just like his poor workers.” 

Frowning at that, you ask, “Would the same happen if they found out about you and Beau?” 

“I don’t care what comes of me if they found out,” she says, determined, “Not only do I love Beau, forever and true, but it would be the greatest thing I could ever bestow upon my family.” 

“And that is?” 

“A ruined reputation,” she says venomously. 

Arthur chuckles at her malice, taking another sip of his lemonade, “My my, the world is gonna be quite the sight when you take it on.” 

“Good. The world as it is makes for a poor outlook,” she jests. 

Setting his glass back onto the table, Arthur goes to stand, “Well, it was a pleasure gettin' to meet and talk with you, Ms. Penelope, but I’m afraid we can’t stay much longer.” 

“I should turn to bed soon myself,” she sighs, standing up herself as you mirror her, “But may I ask one thing of you?” 

To your surprise, Arthur doesn’t fight against her desire for a request, “What is it?” 

“I figured that Beau wouldn’t want me to march. He’s spoken about it many times, so much so I already have my letter to him written up,” she reaches for her book, opening its cover to remove the envelope to hand over to Arthur, “Could you deliver it for me?” 

“Sure.” 

His acceptance as you smirking. 

“Here, as payment.” 

Penelope brings her hands behind her neck, and it’s then that you realize she is undoing the clasp to the necklace that rests on her collar. The silver chain falls away, its loop now broken as Penelope gathers it up in her hand. 

Holding her fist with it out, she waits for Arthur to hold out his palm before she places the jewelry inside. 

“Now, while you won’t have to swim to deliver it, I do have one specification for its delivery.” 

“And that is?” you ask. 

“Only give it to him in the morning, at ten.” 

“Sure. We can do that.” 

Nodding once, Penelope lifts the hem of her dress with one hand, while the other holds onto her book, “Good. Now, we best part ways before a guard comes over here thinkin’ I’m talkin’ to strangers on their property. There’s a small boat, at the dock. You should take it back.” 

“’Course there’s a boat _after_ the fact.” 

“Better than havin’ to swim twice,” Penelope tells him, and Arthur relents some. 

As she walks down the steps, she waves to you both. 

“Travel safely.” 

“You as well,” you tell her, and as she leaves, walking back up to the manor she calls home, you look to Arthur, “Well, that was eventful.” 

“I like her,” Arthur states, and you both begin to descend the steps of the gazebo yourselves, “She’s... She’s somethin’ else.” 

“That’s what you’d call it?” 

“Oh hush.” 

You two crouch the rest of the way, sneaking to the dock house and past one of the workers. Thankfully, he’s too busy flipping through his playing cards under the lantern light to actually keep an eye out as he should. Slipping into the rowboat that Penelope informed you of is thankfully easy, and Arthur takes the handles of the oars to begin rowing you away. 

It isn’t until you’re a good distance away from the Braithwaite Manor and you’re close to the woods you jumped into the water from that you speak. 

“Looks like we can’t go to the fence, now.” 

Arthur frowns, looking to you as he works his torso and shoulders, rolling them so that the boat glides through the water, “What do you mean?” 

“It’s late, and we still gotta grab the horses and get ourselves in order. We’ll probably get back by midnight or later, and then we’d need to go straight to camp if we wanted to try and get up early enough to deliver Penelope’s letter on time.” 

“We can still go to the fence, Wolf.” 

Sighing, you relent some, “Sure, if you want to only get a few hours of sleep.” 

“I’ve gone with less before,” he informs you, “But it’s alright, we can always sleep when we get back.” 

Laughing lightly, you say, “Don’t think Grimshaw would be fond of us sleepin’ in like that.” 

“She won’t bother us. She’s good about givin’ you space when you need it. Or, well, in her eyes, deserve it.” 

Curious, you tilt your head at Arthur, “Why is she so bitter?” 

“Grimshaw? Well, she’s always kinda been like that. Or at least, she was after she got to us... Not sayin’ she’s always been awful either, but she’s a very determined woman,” you laugh at Arthur’s words, “Dutch liked her for that at first, but then it became a problem... Thankfully she stayed with us, and they are still good around one another.” 

“Not like that can be said for Molly.” 

Arthur sighs, sounding a bit defeated, “No... Unfortunately, that can’t.” 

“Have they been together long, Dutch n’ Molly?” 

“They’ve been together for a bit, but Molly was with us for almost a month before they made anythin’ official. Dutch picked her up when she happened upon him in right when we got to get to Blackwater.” 

That makes you frown, “How long were you there for before I came along?” 

“Probably a few weeks,” he says, getting the rowboat to shore finally and rolling his shoulders from the strain it has brought him, “Hard to say exactly.” 

“You mentioned, back in Valentine, that she was traveling here from Ireland... She... She stayed for Dutch?” 

Nodding, Arthur says grimly as you both exit the boat, hopping down onto the damp ground below, “Yep. But I bet she’s regrettin’ that now.” 

“Think she’ll leave? Head back there?” 

“I think she’s too in love to ever go back, sad as it is,” Arthur admits, and you both begin to walk out towards the road, “She left a lot behind, too. Family, friends... Dutch even considered marryin’ her, told her she could bring all of her stuff over here, that they could live well off together, but she never did it...” 

Quietly, as you begin to walk on the main road, the crickets now chirping and the cicadas finally having gone to sleep, you ask, “Why do you think she didn’t?” 

“I guess... I guess because she loved Dutch for who he was... And he...” Arthur looks to the sky, letting out a pensive breath, “He just loved her for what she was.” 

“Then no wonder she’s come to hate him.” 

Your statement makes Arthur grimace, and he mutters, “Just... let’s get back to the horses... We’ll worry ‘bout the rest later.” 

You look ahead, looking towards the trees that sway in the wind and grimacing as Arthur’s words echo in your thoughts.

**\---**

The ride to the fence is a quiet one, with the weight of the lock box and what it holds inside a constant tug at your conscience as you ride up upon his residence.

It’s a rather odd-looking shed, a bit lopsided, but well-lit from the inside as you and Arthur slow your horses right outside. At your arrival, a pale man exits the shed, eyes narrowing as he tries to take you in, his squint speaking for the difficulty of making you out in the dark. 

Lifting the lantern he carries, he raises his Colt at you. 

“What the fuck do you want?” 

“Calm down, Eli. It’s me.” 

The man, Eli apparently, smiles, lowering his weapon as you and Arthur approach, his face now illuminated by the small flame that’s inside the oil lantern, “Well I’ll be— Tacitus Kilgore, it’s been too long!” 

You shoot Arthur a quick look at the name, but the man doesn’t react or acknowledge your confusion. 

Instead, Arthur says, “Glad to see you’re still runnin’ things down here.” 

“Glad to see you ain’t been lynched by the law yet, neither!” Eli laughs, his incomplete grin flashing at the outlaw before he looks to you, “Who’s your friend?” 

“Someone who’s got somethin’ you’d like if you’re willin’ to do some business.” 

“Ah, I always am, Tacitus!” he laughs once more, leading the way as he guides you barefoot through the mud, “Business is always open here!” 

You send Arthur a questioning look, but the man only murmurs to you, “I’ll tell you later...” 

Following the man, you come inside of his shed, your eyes all but boggling in your skull as you take in the countless items, ranging from jewelry to even weapons, that are crowded into the cramped space. 

Eli seems right at home, plopping down onto an antique chair that has certainly seen better days as he looks to you smugly. 

“What do you have for me, darlin’?” 

Arthur grits his teeth at your side, but you don’t even flinch. Instead, you lift the lock box you have in your hands, opening it and pulling the gold bar out from its confines. 

“I think I have somethin’ you’d want to pay nicely for.” 

“Sweet Mother,” Eli blinks, and you can practically see the reflection of the gold bar in his eyes, “Ain’t often you come across one of these! Even in my line of work?” 

“You even work, Eli?” Arthur jokes. 

“Oh hush,” he tells the outlaw, and he then grows serious, eyes narrowing as he points to the gold bar, “I’ll give you five-hundred.” 

The quote has your eyes widening, your heart all but stopping in your chest, “Five-hundred?” 

“Dollars. Yes. Right now, if you’re willin’ to part with that bar,” Eli insists. 

“Shit, I—” you look over to Arthur, who nods at you, “I guess... I guess it’s a deal?” 

Eli whistles from between the gap in his teeth, and he’s quick to come up, all but snatching the bar from your hands before Arthur steps closer. The brooding presence of the man makes Eli reconsider his approach, and instead, he moves past you a little, pulling his own lock box off a shelf and unlocking it. 

“Well, I’ll go ahead n’ grab the cash for you. In the meantime, you can look around for anythin’ you might want, too.” 

“Oh... Okay.” 

Arthur doesn’t leave your side, nor do his eyes leave Eli. 

“Go on,” he tells you quietly, “Have a look. I’ll make sure you’re not duped or anythin’.” 

Softly, you whisper back, “Thanks.” 

Arthur only nods once more, and you begin to look around the shed, your gold bar in hand. 

You look through Eli’s wares, seeing things from nasty looking tomahawks, to poison baits, but it’s the jewelry section you end up looking at the longest. 

It’s not that you’ve always loved jewelry, or necessarily had a desire for it, but you’ve always liked how pretty it was. How metal, something supposed to be so infallible and harsh, could be crafted into something so fine and delicate. How gems and stone could be polished to sparkle like stars in the night, or could even change color in the light. 

You look at all of the precious metals and think of the work that went into them, for how they got made. But of course, also of how they got here, in the back of a fence. 

It makes your heart sink a little, knowing that most of these items were most likely stolen, or simply just too questionable to be found at any other kind of store, and it almost makes you walk away. 

Almost. 

Until you see it. 

For the second time today, somehow, you have managed to find something you didn’t expect to see. But while a gold bar holds a value that is more monetary, the necklace you spot is nothing more than sentimental. 

There, amongst the other jewelry laid about in Eli’s shed, is a familiar necklace with a flower pendant on its chain. 

You let one hand venture forth, seeking it out with your mouth agape and your eyes stinging with both tears and disbelief, and your breath catches in your lungs. 

From your side, you hear Eli call to you. 

“I got your money!” 

Looking up, you see both Eli and Arthur looking at you, and you blink, knocked back into the moment as Eli approaches you. 

“Five-hundred, as promised,” he states, holding out the money to you. 

You take it numbly, passing the gold bar over to Eli, who isn’t bothered by taking it off your hands. He even makes a giddy sound, leaving you to look back at the necklace. 

Reach for it, you pick it up as Eli rummages in the opposite side of his shed, the man already trying to squirrel away the gold blurt, “How much for this?” 

Eli stops, glancing back over to you and taking in that piece of jewelry in your hands. He makes a small noise, grunting and coming back over to that end where you are to see which piece had caught your eye. The man huffs, thinking for a moment before he speaks. 

“Reckon five dollars would do it.” 

Without hesitation, you count the money from your billfold, handing it back to Eli. 

“What? Seriously?” the guy blinks, eyeing the money in your hand, “You want to pay that much for that one? There’s a lot of others that would look so much nicer—” 

“You either take the damn money or stop talkin’,” you hiss. 

Eli holds his hands up in mock surrender, taking the five dollars and stepping back quickly from you, “Alright alright, sheesh. No need to be so pushy.” 

Placing the rest of your money into your satchel, you breathe, looking at the necklace and feeling your throat constrict at the sight of it. 

It’s... It’s been so long. 

Years, right? Just how many? 

Your fingers all but tremble as you take it, looping the silver band around your neck and letting out a small breath as you clasp it in place, letting it fall back down against your chest. 

The metal is cold against your skin, but despite how long it’s been, it still feels achingly familiar. 

“Alright, if you two don’t have any more business, I’d say it’s best if we part ways,” Eli informs you both, “I do have to sleep, ya know.” 

“Right, right,” you say, and then you look to Arthur, “You ready?” 

The man stares at you, eyes held precariously on the pendant above your chest. The gaze feels so pained and weighted, and you can’t help but shift as Arthur forces himself to look away, face drawing up into a harsh scowl as he turns, and walks wordlessly out of the door. 

“Guess he is then,” Eli snorts. 

Sending Eli a pointed look, you rush after Arthur, coming outside to find him getting saddled back up onto Bedwyr. You don’t bother attempting to mount D’or yet. Rather, you start narrowing your eyes at Arthur while you question him. 

“What was that for?” 

“Nothin’, I’m sorry... Just, we need to get back to camp.” 

You huff, going over to D’or and feeling unsatisfied with Arthur’s refusal to be honest with you, “It ain’t just that. I can tell it isn’t. And I thought we were beyond lyin’ and dancin’ around each other about shit. What’s the problem?” 

“Why did you pick that necklace?” Arthur asks, surprising you and causing your fire to be snuffed out as he grips tightly onto the twine of Bedwyr’s neck rope, “Out of everythin’ you could’ve picked, why that?” 

“Because it was mine once,” you tell him, frowning, “I... I had it, up until a few years ago...” 

“Did you lose it?” he asks rather harshly. 

“What? No! I wore this thing like a cross, every _god damn day,_ ” you snip at him, your voice trembling, “It was like selling a part of myself.” 

Arthur scoffs, “You sold it? For what?” 

“For my father, when he first got sick!” 

Arthur’s fire dies, and you can see the immense regret plain on his face, “You... Shit, I’m... I’m sorry... I shouldn’t have—” 

“Why on earth are you so beat up about this fuckin’ necklace!?” you ask him, still irritated, “It’s not like you gave it to me!” 

The words make Arthur flinch, and his reaction surprises you, especially as he walls himself up, seemingly coming to terms with something as he nods, already turning Bedwyr back towards the main road. 

“You’re right,” he says, defeated, “I didn’t.” 

The way he sounds makes your chest hurt, and the necklace that has caused all of this trouble feels like a ball with a chain wrapped around your throat, heavy and accusing. 

“Come on,” Arthur murmurs, “We need to get back. We don’t have long till mornin’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/promptask
> 
> If you want to support me, you can donate to my ko-fi page!  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HoMqBq9Ju9k


	13. Clemens Point III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You say that, but these aren’t spring chickens, Dutch,” Hosea warns, words boding with caution, “You think that they will be so easily fooled by a group of Yankees? You said they’ve been here a long time. And they have. For good reason. They’ve faced a lot more than just us meddlin’ in their affairs.” 
> 
> “Well, they haven’t dealt with _us_ yet,” Dutch’s voice is low, and full of a confidence that makes the air feel almost cold on your skin before he’s shifting back to a lighter disposition, “Hosea, you pay Mrs. Braithwaite a visit with her beloved moonshine tomorrow. Arthur, you go deliver that letter to Beau for Penelope, and you start figurin’ out how you’re gonna work this to our advantage. We got that robbery for the bank in Valentine in two days, and we need to get a good start on gettin' what we can from these families so we can get the hell outta dodge finally once it’s all said n’ done.” 
> 
> “Sounds like a plan!” Micah cheers, but it is only his grating voice that you hear celebrate Dutch’s orders. 
> 
> “Good... Do what you need to today, and we’ll see to the rest after...” Dutch breathes out, a cloud of smoke rising from above his head, “Because, after tomorrow, we’re in it for the long haul.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I'm so excited to get this new update out for you! I've worked on it for a while, and some of these conversations were hard to put together, so I'm eager to go ahead and share them with you!
> 
> Quite a bit is said in this update, but otherwise, I'm already looking to write the next one as I get this ready to upload! It's gonna be huge! ;)
> 
> bUT I've been bad about old comments on previous updates, so I plan on going through those soon! I'm the worst, I know. :')
> 
> But I just had to manually space this text out so it wasn't a block so plz love me wuiefgbweifubweifubwef—
> 
> Enjoy!~

Survival.

It is the foundation of primal instinct. It is the core of all life itself.

From a tiny sapling fighting for light in the shadows cast by the canopy overhead and onto the forest floor, to a rabbit the tries to outrun the fox at its tail — survival drives all living things no matter what they are, or what they are faced with. To succeed, to not perish as a consequence of losing.

And survival is what drives the buck and black wolf now.

Bleeding into the ground below, panting and staggering slightly, both the wolf and the buck eye each other in their stand-off, their bodies having paid the price for their clash.

Behind them, the doe and the white wolf also struggle, wounded from their own encounters and only wishing to leave the one occurring before them. The white wolf stands, whimpering and limping all the same, causing the black wolf to turn its attention to its mate.

The buck falters, seeing the opening but finding his body unable to take advantage, as his muscles shake and his lungs burn. So he only stands his ground, keeping his head lowered and eyes on his enemies as the black wolf limps away.

Joining at the white one’s side, the black wolf regards the buck, huffing as his mate struggles and tries to slink off into the trees.

The wolf meets the buck’s eye, and they stare at each other for a moment longer.

Until finally, the black wolf hangs its head, and ducks into the foliage that it had emerged from only moments before.  
The air hangs heavy and still, smelling of copper and petrichor as the buck all but collapses on the ground, body trembling from the pain and shock of his encounter as the sun rises completely.

Once their battleground, the clearing is cast in warm light, the shadows of the leaves dancing in the soft, golden light as the doe struggles to get closer. Her movements rustle the leaves, remaining as one of the only sounds to be heard as the birds sing above until she collapses next to the buck.

Crimson lines his tan coat, turning his fur a dark color and leaving his breathing shallow as the doe joins him, resting against his battered frame. And together they lay, bleeding out onto the leaves and ground beneath them, unable to do more than be together if the wolves were to return.

And so they face their undetermined fate together, their battle neither won nor lost.

 

**\---**

_“It’s time...” he murmurs to you.  
_

_You’re unable to meet his eyes, and you mess with the buttons on his shirt, as you move with him, “So it seems...”  
_

_“Fleur...”  
_

_Your eyes move up to his, and you feel his hand cup your cheek.  
_

_“I’ll try and come back,” he promises.  
_

_You lean into his palm, closing your eyes as you whisper, “Don’t make me wait long...”  
_

_“I won’t,” he tells you, pressing your lips together softly, as light as the pastels mixing together in the sky like the way you do with one another, “I’ll come back for you one day...”_

You wake with a start, your skin covered in sweat and your heart racing a little as you jolt upwards in the cot below. Your lungs burn a little, your breaths rushing in and out of you as you feel your heart against your ribs.

From the opened collar of your everyday shirt, beads of sweat roll down your skin and along the lines of your collarbones, and you angrily go to wipe at them, only to feel the chain and metal pendant of your necklace against your fingertips.

Frowning, you pause, waiting a moment and squinting down at the necklace, thinking of Arthur’s reaction from some hours before when you had managed to find it at the fence.

His anger, the hurt you could see in the man...

Why had it mattered? Why was it a problem?

Angrily, you go to the nape of your neck, unclasping the chain and placing the necklace into your palm.

You stare at it, taking in the slight wear it seems to have garnered over the years, and just the overall design of the orchid pendant that rests against your palm.

You still remember how you felt when you had given it away, having sold it last, hoping that you could hold onto one of the last things you had from what had been the happiest time in your life. When you felt like there was hope for you, something beyond the confines of your father’s worry and your cabin. Simpler times they were, and the necklace had been the last thing you had from it.

And now, somehow, against every odd in the favor of it being otherwise, you have this necklace once again, only to have Arthur grow cagey over you having acquired it again.

But why? Why was he that way?

Scowling and unsure, you take the necklace, undesiring for all of the mess that it seems to bring. You carefully fix it, wrapping it up and placing it into your satchel from where it hangs off of the post of your tent. And as the flap closes, your beloved orchid necklace now tucked away inside, you let out a breath, looking to where the canvas flaps of your tent have closed and you feel the numbness that it brings.

Why do you care that it upsets Arthur so much? It was an overreaction and an unwarranted one at that. You shouldn’t be hiding the necklace away to spare him from something that he shouldn’t be feeling, and yet. . .

Throwing off your cover angrily, you stand, your sad, black everyday shirt clinging to your skin from your sweat before you peel it off, grabbing a different and clean shirt from your trunk at the foot of your bed. Harshly, you pull it over your head, quickly getting yourself dressed before you grab your satchel and hat, putting both on before you rip open the canvas flaps to your tent.

Only to surprise John as he was walking by.

“Jesus!”

Face reddening, you pause, dropping your arms to your sides and letting the poor canvas fall back into the place behind you as you cough, your eyes dropping to the ground as John eyes you oddly.

“Oh, sorry... Didn’t... Didn’t know you were there...”

“You okay?”

Your gaze darts up, and you see John frowning at you.

“I’m fine,” you say a little too quickly, and to cover you add, “Why? Do I not seem it?”

“You know, you’re as bad of a liar as you are at hiding your upset,” John tells you, and you sigh, knowing there’s no escape from John’s concern as he turns towards you, crossing his arms over his chest.

Sighing, you deflate a little, and you act a little guarded as John eyes you curiously, “Sorry, it was... long night last night.”

“So I heard,” you can tell John is suspicious as to why you are no wracked, but he doesn’t push, instead opting to ask, “Was told you n’ Arthur went to the Braithwaite plantation. It any good?”

Scoffing, you lose a bit of edge as John allows the attention of your discussion to be focused elsewhere, “If you’re imaginin’ a grand estate meant to boast about wealth and power, then you got it.”

The lithe outlaw hooks his thumbs into his belt loops loosely before nodding, “Sounds about right. Family like that don’t know how to be humble.”

A slight lapse passes in your conversation, and you hum, looking over to where Abigail’s tent is a few feet away, its brown, canvas flaps pulled close to fight off the early morning sun.

“You goin’ to see Jack?”

“Abigail, actually,” John murmurs, and he scuffs the ground with the toe of his boot awkwardly, “We... We’ve been talkin’. Workin’ on things.”

A small smile works its way up onto your face, “That so? You finally workin’ on bein’ a man apart from bein’ a father?”

“Oh, shut up,” John gets a little red in the face, his skin turning almost as pink as the scars those wolves back near Colter left him with, “She’s... She knows I’m tryin’ now. With Jack... And I guess in some way, I’m tryin’ with her too.”

“Funny, the John Martson I knew a few months ago wanted nothin’ to do with neither of ‘em.”

“And he was a fool,” John growls, but you can tell the anger isn’t directed at your words, and if anything, the anger is almost a close second to shame, “Just... figured it was time to get my head outta my ass... After the close call in Valentine... I just feel like I can’t afford to leave them on their own.”

Pausing, you murmur, “You’re worried.”

“’Bout a lotta things,” John mutters back, his rough voice a contrast to the melodic sounds of the early morning around you both, “Despite my initial misgivings, Jack... he didn’t make a choice to run with us. The poor boy shouldn’t be orphaned just because his parents couldn’t make the right choices when it came to him...”

“So you’re both tryin’,” you say then.

“Guess you could call it that.”

Smiling once more, you nod once in approval, “Sounds like a good thing to me.”

“It should be if we get it right... only time’ll tell.”

He looks off to Abigail’s tent, taking a deep breath before he takes one step forward. But then, he stalls, stopping before he turns a little towards you, brows furrowed.

“You know, if... if you need, Abigail and I... We’re here if you need us.”

The smile you offer at that is warm and sincere, “Thank you, John.”

“’Course,” he says, stilted, a bit out of his natural skin at that moment before he turns back and continues to Abigail’s tent until he disappears inside.

At his departure, your shoulders fall, and you look out into the camp, wondering where Arthur is so you can go ahead and get started on delivering Penelope’s letter.

As you begin walking towards his tent, you walk close to Pearson’s wagon, where you see a few of the poor souls who are up as early as you are. Particularly, Sadie is with Pearson again, and you can hear them bickering lightly as they go to prepare the morning stew. When you walk past, Pearson offers a small, polite greeting, while Sadie grins manically while waving at you with her meat cleaver in hand. The sight of her makes you laugh, despite Pearson chastising her for being inappropriate with the knife as you finish passing by.

But as you near Arthur’s tent, you hear a conversation coming from Dutch’s.

“—that old hag won’t know what hit her.”

It’s Hosea, his voice a surprise to you as you come closer to Dutch’s tent, the flaps to its front partially pulled back but not enough for you to make out who’s inside. It seems that Dutch is having a discussion with Hosea, and Micah seems to be in the tent too, of all people. It makes your brows furrow as Dutch speaks.

You don’t exactly start with the intention, but you move over to the front without being seen, taking in their words and undoubtedly eavesdropping.

“Good. You take the moonshine to her tomorrow, sell it straight to her face and make us a damn profit for her goods, Hosea,” Dutch chuckles eagerly, “She’ll learn some respect for us Yankees.”

Micah also laughs, and it sets your teeth on edge as Dutch continues.

“So, Arthur,” he starts, and your heart almost loses its rhythm while your breath catches in your throat, “How did seein’ Beau and Penelope go? Any love in the air, or is chivalry ‘bout as dead as patriotism?”

“Things went well... Ain’t like you thought it would be, but... turns out they’re in love with each other. Wolf n’ I had to do a bit of letter delivery in secret between the two of ‘em.

I even have one to deliver today.”

Dutch laughs and you can smell the musky smoke from his lit cigar, “Ah, so cupid is still about, is he? It’s perfect! It can be a good angle for us to use. We can probably squeeze them for a bit of extra gain outta all this. Could you imagine to fortune we could make from blackmailin' ‘em? ”

“Blackmail?” Hosea and Arthur repeat.

“Yes, it’s not a foreign concept to us, like taxes or abidin’ laws. We’ve even done it a time or two before. Can’t see why you’d have a jaded conscience now, of all times,” you can hear a chair move, and you dart to the side of Dutch’s tent, moving back to the side as Dutch comes out to the front.

You see his arm and the burning end of his cigar, especially as he taps its length, knocking off the singed ashes from its end. The wind carries them onto your skin, and they burn slightly as you force yourself to keep quiet, slinking back towards the back end of the tent. Thankfully, his tent is completely done up on this side, with the canvas flaps ties tightly together as you adjust your position.

Hosea is the first to object, “But those times were different, Dutch—”

“Different? In what way, Hosea?” Dutch extends his arm out with a doubtful chuckle, and he shakes his head, “Blackmail is blackmail, and the kettle is as black as the pot.”

“This sure as hell ain’t a kettle or a pot, Dutch,” Hosea seethes, “We’ve blackmailed politicians or bad men, and for things like embezzlement or worse. They were not god damn teenagers who are in love with one another.”

Dutch snorts, “You seem to forget what their last names are, and what power that has,” Dutch’s voice grows a bit chastising then, “We have a Braithwaite and a Gray, members of the two _worst_ and most corrupted families in all of Lemoyne and probably the south itself. They aren’t just _teenagers,_ Hosea. They’re god damn _parasites,_ Hosea, and we’re the unfortunate host.”

“They’re just _kids,_ Dutch. Can’t you see that?”

“The only thing I want to see is their goddamn fortune at the end of this,” Dutch growls, and Hosea’s lips press together thinly, his gaze growing sour upon his old friend, “Now, we’re gonna focus on the bigger picture here, which is tryin’ to get this damned money so we can have our future, Hosea!”

“You think that’s gonna guarantee us a future?” Hosea pauses, his voice growing a bit dubious, “With the Pinkertons already on us as they are, I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

“Good idea or not, it would be a good way to find out about that fortune those Braithwaites seem to be hidin’, and I’m stickin’ to it,” Dutch takes a small pull from his cigar,

“Don’t you agree with that, Micah?”

“’Course, boss,” Micah answers dutifully.

Looking to Arthur then, Dutch motion his cigar towards him, eyes crinkling smugly as he asks, “And what about you, Arthur? What do you think?”

You can feel the tension rise in the air between the men, and you swallow thickly as Arthur speaks.

“I think Hosea is right,” Arthur murmurs, and you can see Dutch’s smile fall away, crumbling like something rotting from the core as Arthur’s opposition peels him back layer by layer, “I’ve... I’ve been thinkin’ about it... And I just... I don’t think there’s as much money in this as we like to think there is...”

Dutch immediately scoffs, waving off Arthur’s unwanted commentary, “Nonsense, Arthur. They’re old money, and they’re even older blood. Why they’ve been on this land growin’ cotton and ruinin’ lives to benefit their own since Lemoyne was a state, I’m sure. You just gotta have faith in that, son.”

Arthur doesn’t offer a rebuttal to Dutch’s denial, and Hosea remains pointedly quiet.

Micah, however, doesn’t.

“I think we should start thinkin’ about how we can start attackin’ them from the inside. Do things and sabotage them in a way that they think the other family is responsible. Could you imagine the chaos that would ensue? Say, I don’t think the Saint Denis theater would come close to a show like that.”

Micah’s idea has Dutch laughing once more, and you frown as the gang leader agrees with him, “Oh, that would be! We could easily take what we need, and slip off like we weren’t ever here in the first place! And then what could they do, ‘cept mourn for their loss and for their gullibility to Yankees!”

“You say that, but these aren’t spring chickens, Dutch,” Hosea warns, words boding with caution, “You think that they will be so easily fooled by a group of Yankees? You said they’ve been here a long time. And they have. For good reason. They’ve faced a lot more than just us meddlin’ in their affairs.”

“Well, they haven’t dealt with _us_ yet,” Dutch’s voice is low, and full of a confidence that makes the air feel almost cold on your skin before he’s shifting back to a lighter disposition, “Hosea, you pay Mrs. Braithwaite a visit with her beloved moonshine tomorrow. Arthur, you go deliver that letter to Beau for Penelope, and you start figurin’ out how you’re gonna work this to our advantage... We got that robbery for the bank in Valentine in two days, and we need to get a good start on gettin' what we can from these families so we can get the hell outta dodge finally once it’s all said n’ done.”

“Sounds like a plan!” Micah cheers, but it is only his grating voice that you hear celebrate Dutch’s orders.

“Good, now head on out. I’ll be seein’ Trelawny later today about some other business, so in the meantime, do what you need to today, and we’ll see to the rest after...” Dutch breathes out, a cloud of smoke rising from above his head, “Because, after tomorrow, we’re in it for the long haul.”

You can hear the men shift inside, and you look over, going to move to Arthur’s wagon that is to the left of Dutch’s tent. You have only started to slink off, watching the corner for who is coming and going when a hand on your shoulder startles you.

You somehow manage to stay quiet, turning to see who had caught you in the act, only to let out a quiet breath of relief.

“Taken to spyin’, have you?” Charles asks softly, only low enough for you to hear while he raises a brow at you.

“Charles,” you whisper, feeling your heart ram against your ribs as your slight adrenaline rush already begins to wear off from his surprise, “God, you about gave me a heart attack.”

“Fear makes us pay attention,” he tells you, “You’re lucky it was just me.”

Shaking your head, your cheeks heat a little, “It’s not like I was meanin’ to, at the start... I was just lookin’ for Arthur and caught him here in the tent, and—”

“I’m not gonna say anythin’,” he promises you, and you blink at him.

“You aren’t?”

“No,” he assures you, “I saw Micah and Dutch in the tent earlier, talkin’ with just themselves... I would be wary of what they were sayin’ too.”

“Yeah... It wasn’t good.”

“Well, good or not, you need to go ahead and meet up with Arthur,” Charles tells you, “And try to keep away from doin’ somethin’ like this... At least, to where you can’t be so easily caught.”

Blushing, you duck your head, “Thanks, Charles.”

The man only nods to you, walking back to the edge of the lake as he leaves you behind Dutch’s tent.

Taking a similar route, you walk to the edge of the water, making it appear as though you had been walking along with it as you walk up to Arthur’s wagon.

The outlaw is already there, gathering up some items into his satchel and grabbing his hat off of a nail on his wagon’s side to place onto his head. Clearing your throat, you announce your approach, causing the man to turn, blinking once as he takes in the sight of you at the back of the wagon.

“Why did you come in that way?”

“Took the scenic route,” you tell him, walking around the rest of his attached tent, making your way past the first post holding the canopy of fluttering canvas above, “Why? That a bad thing?”

“Nah, just... you never did that before,” Arthur pauses, and his brow furrows, falling down to your collar as he pauses, silent for a moment before he murmurs.

“Maybe I wanted to today.”

Arthur hums, turning as he grabs the envelope containing Penelope’s letter, “Oh, well... You ready to head out?”

“If you are,” you mutter back.

Not hesitating, Arthur places Penelope’s letter into his satchel, walking past you, “Come on then.”

Speeding up to catch up to the man, you meet him at his side, the outlaw looking in front of him without directly looking at you.

“You’re actin’ odd,” you state directly, eyes narrowing on him as he tries to hide the slight wince the words offer, “In fact, you’ve been actin’ off since the fence last night.”

“I’m not actin’ odd,” Arthur says with some defense leaking into his tone, “Listen, I just wanna deliver Penelope’s letter and be done for the day—”

“So last night just didn’t happen for you,” you give Arthur an odd and slightly irritated look, “Or should I remind you of the random meltdown you had, and how we rode in silence the entire way back to camp?”

Arthur says nothing. Instead, he looks ahead, watching as Kieran gathers up his Walker and D’or for your impending ride to Caliga Hall.

“Can you even tell me what’s wrong?” you ask, voice soft and almost held under your breath, “Because it was like... like we were made at each other again—”

“I’m not mad at you,” the outlaw murmurs quietly, but he still doesn’t look at you.

In fact, he hangs his head, hiding his face away from your scrutiny as your chest feels heavy.

“You sure as hell were at the fence—”

“I overstepped then and I said I was sorry. I meant all of that when I said it, because it’s true,” he mutters, still refusing to look at you, “Just... Just had a moment there... It wasn’t meant to be directed at you.”

Huffing, your sense of dubiousness towards the outlaw is obvious, “And what was that moment even for?”

Arthur doesn’t speak for a second, rather, he sighs and watches as Kieran approaches you both with your horses.

“I promise I’ll tell you when it’s right to,” he says, voice as soft as ever as he takes a second to meet your eyes, but the moment doesn’t last long before he is looking away again, almost like he can’t process the sight of you, “I just... don’t know how to right now.”

His promise leaves you speechless as the former O’Driscoll approaches, guiding both Arthur’s signature Walker and D’or by their reins as he stops them at the edge of the camp.

“They’re ready to go for you both!” Kieran says cheerfully, handing over the Walker’s lead to Arthur and then D’or’s to you, “They had a bit of burdock root with their oats this morning, so they should be rather perky today!”

“Thank you,” you tell him sincerely, patting D’or on the neck as you try to ignore the sinking pit forming slowly but surely in your stomach because of the man standing silently at your side, “You do a lot for D’or... it doesn’t go unnoticed.”

Kieran dips his head, smiling crookedly, “It’s a pleasure, Ms. Broce. She’s a fine nag, and I’ve always enjoyed workin’ with her since I got the chance... It’s been really nice to see her put back on weight and be the fine horse I know she is at heart.”

“That’s Trotters for you,” you comment with a little bit of pride seeping past your upset.

Nodding in agreement, Kieran chuckles, “Oh yes, Ms. Broce. Perfect at best, and well-rounded at their worst.”

That gets a small laugh out of you, and then Kieran looks to Arthur.

“Bedwyr is also doin’ good after you took him out yesterday. He’s definitely calmer. We should continue workin’ with him, and a bit more often. We can get him used to the concept of a proper ride and handlin’ in no time, I just know it.”

Dipping his head, Arthur mutters, “I’ll keep that in mind... Thanks, Kieran.”

“’Course!” he takes a step back, preparing to break off from you both, “Just bring those horses back to me whenever ya can! I love ‘em, ya know.”

“That we do,” Arthur comments lowly, and Kieran waves at you both as he turns and walks away.

You wait until Kieran is far enough away to make your own comment, glancing at Arthur weirdly, “Hey, are you okay? Seriously?”

“I’ll be fine once we get this letter business over and done with,” the man grumbles, hiking himself up onto his Walker from the stirrups, “We ain’t got long. We’ll be gettin' to Caliga Hall past ten if we don’t hurry up.”

“Fine...”

Relenting, you get up on D’or’s saddle, grabbing onto her reins to begin guiding her as Arthur spurs his Walker. You know that the man is too stubborn for his own good sometimes, and that he will only open up when he deems it necessary or a possibility. No matter how much you question, how much you push, Arthur will not answer or give into you if he does not wish to do so.

So, knowing better and expecting no different, you let it go as best you can, pushing down the fissure that is starting to split and grow inside you as the outlaw at your side rides on as though nothing were happening at all.

You ride in silence as you did last night, staying quiet but still awkwardly in each other’s spaces despite the tension that is driving you apart.

Arriving at Caliga Hall is just as pleasant, as the guards from before recognize you at the gate. They pull it back, nodding to Arthur and you as you pass through.

“You here for Beau?” the one holding the gate asks.

“Afraid so,” Arthur informs him.

Nodding, the guard goes to shut the gate back as he talks further to the outlaw, “Well, he is at the edge of the property, by the river. But, once you are finished with him, it seems that you and your partner will have business with Mr. Tavish Gray as well, per his request.”

You can see Arthur holding back his irritation, “Ah. Well... I’ll see if I can make time for him.”

“You better. Mr. Tavish does not take kindly to bein’ forced to wait.”

Dipping his head, Arthur lightly grits out, “Noted...”

Together, you ride past the main house at Caliga Hall, riding around and heading to the back of the property to where the land grows swampish, as the banks of the Kamassa River and cypress trees with hanging moss hanging down from their branches making an experience.

There, you see Beau, standing at the banks of the river and tossing rocks forth, the surface looking as disturbed as the young man who faces it.

Letting out a small breath, you try to focus on the situation at hand.

“Beau,” Arthur announces your presence as he dismounts, causing Beau to pivot abruptly to face you both as you do the same, “We did as you asked. Penelope got your letter.”

“Oh, good!” Beau smiles as you dismount D’or, face held carefully neutral as he regards you both, “Did she have anythin’ for me?”

“Yes. Unfortunately,” Arthur digs into his satchel, removing Penelope’s letter to give to Beau, “This is what she asked us to give to you.”

Sighing wistfully, Beau takes Penelope’s letter as though it were the finest treasure in the world, “Ah, thank you kindly, sir! I sincerely appreciate it!”

“Just don’t make us deliver another letter for you, and we’ll call it even,” Arthur mutters.

The outlaw’s negativity has nothing on Beau’s excitement, and you watch from D’or’s side as the young Gray opens his letter and reads its contents.

His face goes from utter glee and fulfillment to disappointment and fear, and you can see his eyes darting along the lines of Penelope’s fine scrawl before he almost drops the letter, looking to Arthur with a grave amount of upset and panic.

“She did this on purpose!” he looks a little betrayed, but Penelope’s actions are not met with anger, but rather an overwhelming sense of worry as Beau approaches Arthur, “You have to help me, sir! We _have_ to stop her from walkin’ this march! She doesn’t realize it, but she’s goin’ to get herself killed!”

“Then let her—”

“I could never!”

With a bit of irritation, Arthur sets a stern hand on Beau’s shoulder, “You see to misunderstand me, boy. I’m not sayin’ you should ever let somethin’ happen to her. But what you _should_ do is let her do things for herself! Ain’t no love of yours gonna work if you don’t! A woman like that, you can’t suffocate her into changin’. You either gotta embrace it, or you don’t.”

“Well, you seem to misunderstand me too, mister. It’s not that I don’t want her to have a voice, or to stand up for herself,” Beau says in some defense, his voice as weak as his clammy skin is pale, “but it’s that she is puttin’ herself in grave danger with this march! She’s already a Braithwaite, and in Rhodes, that isn’t looked well upon. We practically built and run the town! And with her goin’ and joinin’ a march of women yellin’ about suffrage? She might as well see the undertaker while she’s there!”

“The scariest part about lovin’ someone is not fearin’ for yourself, but the person that you care about,” Arthur informs Beau, hooking his thumbs into his gun belt's loops and adjusting his stance — regarding the young Gray, the outlaw’s chin tilts upward as he peers down at him, “Life ain’t fair, nor is she known to be kind. It’s right to be suspicious of her. But you can’t always live in fear, and you certainly can’t force someone else to. ‘Specially if you love ‘em. ‘Cause you won’t do right by ‘em if you do.”

The words remind you of your father, and you sink your head a little as Beau’s frantic pleading reaches your ears.

“It ain’t fear I feel... it’s... it’s...” he makes a small noise, “Doesn’t matter what it is— I can’t let her get killed for wantin’ somethin’ good for herself!”

Beau begins to stomp off, and at the sound of his haste, you raise your head just in time to see Arthur go to pull after him. The outlaw catches his arm, stopping the young Gray in his tracks before forcing Beau to face him.

“Then what are you gonna do?” he starts, a bit harsh now, “Gonna run straight into Rhodes in front of a few dozen people n’ save Penelope? Think that’ll be more damnin’ than if you just let her walk!”

Beau makes a frustrated noise, and then, he looks at you.

“You!” he pulls away from Arthur, leaving the outlaw to make a sour face as Beau rushes over to you, stopping about a foot away with his desperation as plain as the sharp lines of his face, “You can help me, right? You could pose as one of the suffragists! You could keep her safe—”

Protesting, Arthur speaks up as he finishes stomping his way over to you both, “She ain’t your personal bodyguard—”

“Thought you were just tellin’ me to let a woman decide somethin’ on her own,” Beau fires back, and it effectively silences Arthur.  
Looking back to you, Beau grabs onto your hand, pleading, “Please. She... She means the world to me... I say that, but... She _is_ my whole world. If somethin’ were to happen to her, I— I—”

“I’ll make sure she’s safe.”

Blinking, Beau’s worry shifts to shock, and then to utter delight.

“Oh! Oh, thank you, ma’am!” Beau pulls back, “I— I can’t ever thank you enough! Come on, I’ll need to get my horse—”

“You aren’t comin’ with, are you?” you ask, and Beau stalls, turning back in your direction as you continue, “Not that I’m urgin’ you not to, but... Arthur is right. If you run in there after her with me, there ain’t no point of even sendin’ me her way with the trouble it’s gonna cause.”

Beau shakes his head, waving his arms about to motion his decline, “Oh, certainly not! But I can’t just stay here, knowin’ that somethin’ might happen to her. Maybe I can’t directly help, but I want to be around... just in case.”

Knowing there was no arguing with Beau, you sigh from relent, “Fine... But you probably should keep a good distance away. Make sure you ain’t seen. Even if you don’t confront

Penelope, I don’t think it would work out for you...”

“Well, we’ll just have to see what happens. But we have to be quick! The sooner we get to their meeting point, the better off Penelope will be! We’re probably too late for the

beginnin’ of their march!”

Arthur moodily comes up beside you while he leads his Walker, and you grab onto D’or’s reins to do the same while Beau leads the way. The young Gray is so enraptured with his personal quest, he doesn’t seem to notice you and Arthur walking side by side, nor does he seem to pick up on the conversation you two start to have.

“God, why didn’t you tell him no?” Arthur asks, sending you a quick look before he breaks his gaze away, “We’re just wastin’ time!”

“’Cause, I would just have been wastin’ breath tryin’ to convince him that this is stupid of him. And if I let him go, and on the off chance he _might_ have had to rescue Penelope from any backlash, he could throw this entire plan of Dutch’s out of the window, and then what would we have?”

Arthur grows quiet for a moment, and you walk a few paces before he finds his voice again.

“You act like that’s the only reason.”

“He’s an idiot because he loves her,” you tell Arthur, a bit critical of the man, “Is that a crime?”

“I know a lot about ‘em, and unfortunately, it’s not,” Arthur growls lowly, his annoyance with the whole ordeal crystal clear, “I just feel like we got bigger problems on our hands than playin’ as Cupid for these two.”

“We do have bigger problems. And we can have even bigger ones if we ain’t careful now,” you argue back, “If we have any chance of gettin' out of Clemens Point as a whole, it’s with this ludicrous delusion Dutch has that he calls a plan. And unfortunately, it directly involves these two. So we might have to play Cupid for now, but I’d rather be worried about their necks instead of my own or yours.”

Arthur huffs, but his rebuttal dies out miserably on his tongue as Beau approaches the stables, and a familiar face greets you both.

You swallow dryly as an older man, with his grayed mutton chops and scraggly hair that is balding from the top of his head, turns around from where he had been petting a rather fine-looking black chestnut Thoroughbred. The horse cants his head a little as the three of you stop, and the old man regards you both, and more specifically, Beau.

“G-Grandpa, why are you out here? I thought you were havin’ a visit today from Mr. Co—”

“The meeting was canceled. Some unfortunate business has occurred for him elsewhere. A robbery of one of his transports, he said. Nasty business,” and the man, who you can only assume to be none other than Tavish Gray himself, looks to you and Arthur, “And since I found my schedule cleared, I thought that I could see the new deputy that my son appointed myself.”

Tavish steps away from the Thoroughbred, and now, towards Arthur. The older man carries himself with a strange air. Not necessarily one that garners respect, but rather, demands it.

His fine, gray suit flashes as he reaches out his hand, offering it to Arthur to shake.

“Tavish Gray,” he says, smiling some, “Owner of Caliga Hall and Beau’s beloved grandfather.”

“Arthur Callahan,” Arthur semi-lies, shaking Tavish’s hand, their grips on one another tight and evaluating of another.

“I see you’ve already met Beau,” Tavish says, his hand finally falling away from Arthur’s, “Splendid young boy, isn’t he?”

“Grandpa—”

“Beau, why don’t you get your horse like you were comin’ to do, and you can let Mr. Callahan and I talk, hm?” Tavish suggests, and he offers a cold smile to Beau, “It would be much appreciated.”

Faltering some, Beau takes a few steps away, trying to hide the reaction his grandfather garners from him, “Y-Yessir.”

Chuckling, Tavish watches as Beau pivots, turning away from you all to walk to the back of the stables, entering in the furthest pen to begin saddling up what looks to be like a chocolate roan Warmblood.

With the vacated space, Tavish takes advantage, practically ignoring you and only referring to Arthur.

“So. I’ll go ahead and be straight with you. You don’t seem like the deputy-type to me.”

Your blood runs cold, but Arthur plays off Tavish’s line beautifully, not even cracking under the man’s direct scrutiny.

“Truthfully, is anyone exactly the deputy-type?”

That gets a proper laugh out of Tavish, and he claps Arthur on the shoulder as he cackles.

“You— I do like you. Lackin’ the deputy-type or not,” as his humor passes, Tavish then grows serious, “But see, I’m actually lookin’ for that. In fact, it’s what drew my eye to you when you first came to Caliga Hall yesterday.”

You swallow tightly as Arthur asks, “Is that so?”

“Why yes, Mr. Callahan. You see... I’ve been in a bit of argumentive spittle with a family known as the Braithwaites... I’m sure my son filled you in when he brought you on as one of his deputies, so you are aware of how deep and long this feud goes.”

Arthur nods, “He certainly did, and I certainly do.”

“Good. Saves me the pain of havin’ to even talk about those deplorable sacks of shit,” Tavish takes a step back, regarding Arthur carefully, “I was noticin’... My stable, it’s rather empty... Afraid I lost one of my horses a week ago. The damn mare went lame on me, as it goes. She wasn’t even worth the bullet I put in her at the end,” Arthur’s lips twitch with the hint of a scowl, and you can see his eyes narrow unpleasantly on Tavish as the older Gray sighs, looking to the empty stable pen that is before him, “I was lookin’ to fill it. But the Scarlett Meadows Stable doesn’t have a horse worth a damn for bein’ here at Caliga Hall.”

Arthur tilts his head, and you can see the outlaw growing a bit suspicious of the man before him, “And what does that have to do with me?”

“You do have some wit about you, which is good. But what I am askin’ of you requires little to none to pull off,” Tavish looks to Arthur with a seedy grin, “It’s come to my attention that the whore that runs that family across the way has a bit of an affinity for fine horses... Last I heard, she even bought a black Arabian from Saint Denis no less.”

Whistling, Arthur shakes his head, “That’s quite a bit of money there.”

“It’s also quite a horse from what I’ve heard, as well,” Tavish hums, regarding Arthur carefully as he finishes speaking, “And, if the public word is correct about it, it sounds like it would be a perfect fit for my open stable.”

The outlaw can’t help but chuckle, and he slightly circles around the man, ducking his head and watching from under the brim of his hat as he passes around, “So, you’re wantin’ your son's newly appointed deputy to rustle a horse for you, is that it?”

“Well, you’re not the deputy-type for a reason, are you?”

Arthur stops, and he stares the man down, unwavering.

“Depends.”

“She has other nice horses too, ones that you could also steal and pawn off. In fact, I have some contacts, down by the shore of Flat Iron Lake, right outside of Rhodes. Names are Clay and Clive. They’ll give you fifty cents of every dollar them horses are worth on a bad day, and ya know... I heard that you should be able to get five thousand for the other ones she's got. And I may also have somethin' to give you for your trouble with that Arabian... Should make it worth your time, shouldn’t it?”

Arthur's eyes boggle a little, and you know that without a doubt yours have as well.

“That’s certainly a lot for some horses.”

“That witch likes and only buys herself the best,” Tavish says with a smile, “She’s a damn Braithwaite after all. Humble is not in their name, but I’ll be more than happy to put it there for her.”

Before you all can say anything else, Beau approaches, leading the Warmblood at his side as he regards you both, “Are we ready to go?”

“And just where are you goin’, Beau?”

“Rhodes,” Beau answers, and some confidence shows through his fear, “I have some business to attend to there.”

“Ah. Well, be careful. There’s apparently a damned suffrage march out there. You best keep to Mr. Callahan’s side lest you want to be accosted by whores and maniacs of the like!”

Beau nods, but his reply is a bit weaker than before, “I’ll see to it, grandpa.”

“Take care of him, Mr. Callahan,” Tavish sends a sharp look to Arthur.

Arthur only nods in acknowledgment to Tavish’s order before the man starts to walk away.

“Let me know what you think of my offer, Mr. Callahan. I look forward to hearin' about your decision.”

Arthur grits his teeth, his face drawn up as Beau begins to mount upon his Warmblood. You do the same, saddling up on D’or as Arthur stews by his Walker.

“Well, seems you all met my grandfather,” Beau sighs as Arthur finally mounts his colt, “Quite the bastard, isn’t he?”

“That’s a rather kind way of puttin’ it,” Arthur mutters.

Sighing, Beau looks between you both, “I’m very sorry for that... Tavish is... Well, he’s just as awful as he claims the Braithwaites are, if not more at times... And the sad part is, some things he says are true. Really shows who he is, doesn’t it?”

“He barely even acknowledged me,” you mutter with some bitterness, “He looked at me once, and that was it.”

“He doesn’t like women outside of marriages or households,” Beau explains, “A woman who isn’t under a man might as well be non-existent in his eyes, for the way he refuses to even regard them.”

Chuffing, you comment, “Seems like he and I will get along just fine, then.”

“Come on,” Beau pulls the reins of the Warmblood below him, getting the massive horse underneath him to begin walking away from the stables, “We can talk more on the way to Rhodes.”

The three of you ride off of the main property of Caliga Hall, and as soon as you are out of the main earshot of the guards by the gate, Beau speaks up once more.

“So, what did my grandfather propose to you, Arthur? Poisonin’ their wells, burnin’ their crops n’ house down?”

“Unfortunately it isn’t as diabolical as murder or arson,” Arthur corrects the young Gray, “He wants me to steal a horse of theirs for him.”

“God, I _knew_ he was up to somethin’ when it came to Rose! That poor mare had a bad shoe, and suddenly he’s goin’ ‘round sayin’ she’s lame and there’s nothin’ can be done!

He went and shot her before our farrier could even get a look at her!”

Arthur makes a small noise at that, “Your grandfather killed her for nothin’, then?”

“Oh, not necessarily for nothin’. There was a motive, but it wasn’t anythin’ just nor humane, I’ll tell you! He always hated her because she was she never liked him— she even bucked him off once! I loved her for it, and she was always kind to me. But after that, he was always lookin’ to get rid of her... And last week, he finally did.”

Looking to Beau, you speak up, “Has he ever done that before?”

“Not this exactly, but I can assure you, the man doesn’t have a reputation for doin’ good in the world... It’s one reason I want to leave.”

“After meetin’ him, I can understand why,” Arthur starts, “But runnin’ away, it ain’t that easy, Beau.”

“I know it isn’t. I’ve always known that,” Beau sighs, “But I’ve been tryin’ for the past year or two to try and at least make it possible... Especially for Penelope and me... Livin’ with our families alone is enough to drive us both insane. But we don’t wanna have to hide how we care for another on top of just hidin’ from our grandparents!”

“So the Braithwaites really aren’t that much better,” you say to Beau then.

“No. They hate that the war is over and they lost it. It cost them a lot, and they’ve never exactly been keen on changin’ their ways... So now they deal in moonshine, and my father is aimed to break that down. Not ‘cause it’s illegal— because I’ve even caught him drunk off of their shine more times than I can count. It’s because he wants to tear down the Braithwaites as much as they wanna tear down the Grays. And frankly, I’d rather not spend my life trying to ruin theirs just because I’m told to...”

“And what about Penelope?” Arthur asks.

“She hates things here just as much as I do. While Tavish is a horrible man, I’m at least allowed to do as I want. But Penelope? They force her to do a lot of things she hates to begin with. Like wearin’ corsets so tight she gets sores or can’t breathe, or she is sent to etiquette classes on how to be a _proper wife._ And, if anything, I hate the Braithwaites for what they do to her, more than anythin’ else.”

You arrive outside of Rhodes, and it’s then that you see a wagon in the distance. A few women are surrounding the end, their posters having been laid down into the dirt as the three of you slow and approach their caravan.

Beau laughs with relief, “Looks like we didn’t miss it!”

“Think their wagon is broken,” Arthur comments.

“Oh!” a plump woman in a blue dress sees you, her white sash almost falling off of her shoulders as she lowers herself from the bench of the wagon, “Maybe they could help us!”

From inside the carriage, you can see Penelope, sitting with a few other women. The commotion of you arriving, with the other women murmuring to themselves quietly as they eye both Beau and Arthur warily causing Penelope to shift her attention. Upon seeing Beau, Penelope pales, opening the door to the wagon and beating the other woman in approaching you both first.

“Beau!” she gapes as the young Gray dismounts his Warmblood, “I told you not to come here!”

“I couldn’t let you do this! At least, not without makin’ sure that you’re safe,” he pulls her hand into her own, looking at her with a sincere and heavy gaze, “But you have to hear me out, Penelope. You just... I’m worried that somethin’ is gonna happen to you! I can’t let you go out into this with a clear conscience!”

“Stop! You’re just makin’ a scene and a fool of yourself! People will recognize us both and then what will come of the both of us!?” Penelope hisses lowly, but she sighs, shaking your head, “Please, Beau. Just let me do this...”

“I... I know that even if I don’t want you to, you will. I just wanted to try and have you see how dangerous this is... It’s why I asked Arthur and Wolf to help me, to make sure you stay safe.”

Looking over, Penelope takes notice of you and you do see her relax some.

“Ah. That’s... okay. Just... Not sure how Arthur will go over with the others.”

“I’m not a protestor to your protest, miss,” Arthur tells her, taking a step forward, nodding to the wagon and to its back wheel that has fallen off its mount, “Say, think I could help with that.”

The plump lady who had seen you arrive claps her hands together merrily, “Oh, would you, sir?”

“Sure. I might need a helping hand, though. Could some of you help lift the wagon on this side so I can knock it back a bit?”

A few of the women step up, helping Arthur fix the wheel as Beau and Penelope step aside to talk to each other for a moment more. As for you, the plump lady approaches you, smiling proudly and extending her hand.

“My name is Elizabeth Cady Stanton. But most just call me Miss Cady,” she smiles warmly at you as you take her hand, shaking it, “I’m a suffragette. Were you here to partake in our march?”

“Maybe not in the way you’re thinkin’,” you state, smiling back at her as she lets go of your hand, “But I’ll walk just the same.”  
Miss Cady’s smile falters a little as she tilts her head, “Oh. Are you not for the movement?”

“I’m not against it,” you explain, “I’m just afraid that I’m here on unrelated business instead of anythin’ personal or political. But I’m definitely not goin’ to object or make an issue while I am here with you.”

Your words have Miss Cady perking up again, “Ah, that’s splendid! What about your friend over there?”  
You look over to where Arthur finishes shoving the wagon’s loose wheel back into place with a hard shove from his shoulder, and the women around begin to rejoice and cheer as the wagon becomes functional once more.

“He shouldn’t give you an issue either,” you tell her quietly, seeing as Arthur smiles at the other women and talks to them kindly as you look back to Miss Cady, “He’s too much of a gentleman to ever tell a woman she shouldn’t have a voice for herself.”

“Hm. Sounds like quite the gentleman indeed,” she nudges you in the shoulder, smirking a bit, “Seems like you lucked out to have gotten to know him.”  
Looking at Arthur and watching as he laughs at one of the woman’s words, you can’t help but feel something flutter in your chest, like a butterfly trapped in its own cocoon.

“I suppose I have...”

“Wolf!”

You hear Penelope’s voice from behind you, and you turn as she walks up to you. Beau walks away from behind her, watching Penelope as he nears his Warmblood. He then notices your stare, and he nods once before heaving himself onto the saddle and riding off.

“Beau said you were here to help me out, just in case if things went wrong.”

Nodding to the Colt on your hip, you murmur, “I’ve only had to use this thing once. Pray let’s not have to use it again today.”

“Oh my! You’re a woman of action!” Miss Cady can’t hide her awe, and she smiles wide as she gapes and chuckles, “My my, this is quite the turnout!”

“I assure you, I’m only a woman of action when I need to be.”

Penelope snorts, fanning herself, “In this world, all that’s demanded of us is action.”

“Wise words, my girl,” Miss Cady pats Penelope on the shoulder fondly before she looks back to the wagon, and the people surrounding it, “Say, are we ready to get this march on the road again!”

The women cheer, picking their signs back up as Arthur walks towards you all again.

“The wagon should ride fine now,” he tells Miss Cady.

“Well, it was fine before, but we accidentally hit a large rock on the way in, and it just loosened from there... You know, it would be a good look if you were out there with us, drivin’ the wagon.”

Arthur chuckles shaking his head, “I’m not much for a political statement.”

“Nonsense. It doesn’t have to be political, sir,” Miss Cady places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “Anyone willin’ to even help us is appreciated for what it is. And, truth be told, I think I do find some comfort in you and Miss Wolf bein’ here. Rhodes is not known for pleasant residents.”

Chuckling, Arthur murmurs, “That I do concur.”

“So would you help drive the wagon?” Miss Cady asks the outlaw, “It’s just goin’ straight down the street, albeit slowly so they see and hear us.”

“I think I can drive down the road just fine,” Arthur smiles softly.

“Perfect!” Miss Cady exclaims, and she walks back to the side of the wagon, heaving herself up and back onto the right passenger side of the wagon’s bench, “Come on, girls! The march commences!”

You feel a slight pull on your shirt, and you look over to Penelope.

“You should ride with me, in the wagon,” she tells you as Arthur glances back at you.

“You comin’, Wolf?” he asks, eyes growing a bit narrowed and soft.

“Yeah... Just... I’ll ride in the back. With Penelope.”

Arthur frowns a little, but nods, “Alright... Just... Keep an eye out, okay?”

“You know I will.”

Arthur stares at you for a moment longer, and his eyes dip down to your collar before they narrow, and an acidic expression takes over his face. You’re unsure of why he’s reacting the way that he is, but before you can process it any further, Arthur rips himself away, ducking his head and heading back to the front of the wagon.

A hand pulls at your sleeve, and Penelope whispers to you as the women with signs arrange themselves around the wagon.

“Come on, Wolf.”

The two of you head to the back of the wagon, clambering in and hanging at the very back while Penelope grabs her own sign, holding it up as you place a hand to your holster to hold your Colt.

Whistling, you manage to perk both the ears of both D’or and Arthur’s Walker, and your horses begin to dutifully follow the wagon as Arthur gets it into motion.

As it lightly lurches forward, heading into Rhodes slowly but surely as Miss Cady begins to talk to him at the front, and the women begin chanting on their own, you hear

Penelope hums in thought.

“So... You and Arthur... You’re not husband and wife like I thought initially, are you?”

“No,” you answer her bluntly, keeping your eyes out behind the wagon and your horses, “We’re not.”

Penelope sighs then, “Oh, well, that was rather assuming of me then. I apologize.”

“You don’t have to.”

“It’s a rather intimate thing to assume,” she pauses then, and you force yourself not to look at her, “But you two... You... You just—”

“Arthur and I aren’t anythin’ like that,” you tell Penelope, “We ride together. We do things like this together—”

“But you aren’t together,” she finishes.

Breathing out, you reaffirm her statement, “No. We’re not.”

At your side, the young Braithwaite girl sets her sign down, and you glance out of the corner of your eye to see her rest her head against the side of the wagon and close her eyes.

“You know, I do love Beau very much. He is... He is nothing like his family... If he were a truly anythin’ like Tavish, then I’d be dead or under his thumb, but... he respects me for who I am. Not what I am,” you then see Penelope lower her head and look to you, “I can see Arthur regards you in a similar light. Even in the short time I’ve known you both.”

“We’ve had our rough patches... In fact, I think we’re still in one,” you murmur, looking out to the countless magnolia and oak trees lining the rolling hills of Lemoyne and sighing, “But... Arthur has always respected me. I’ve never felt like, even when we were fightin’, that he never thought of me or my opinion as worthless... Because our biggest fight? It was over my opinion of him...”

Penelope tilts her head at you, “Was it good or bad?”

“It was neither,” you tell her, “It was... well, it was just what he didn’t want to hear.”

“Not what he wanted to hear?” Penelope comes closer, going to the back of the wagon to sit by you as the woman in the march chant loudly around you, their signs bobbing up and down over the wooden sides of the wagon, “From what I saw back there, I’m sure the feelin’ is mutual.”

Blinking, you can’t help but look at Penelope, “What? What do you mean mutual?”

“Oh, was it not—” Penelope stops herself, nodding once, “Nevermind. I just misunderstood.”

You frown softly before you look away, Arthur now guiding the march into the Rhodes.

The tension in the air dramatically changes, and you see a few people line the streets. A few men already begin yelling at the march, words full of curses and anger as hot as white coals pulled from the pits of Hell itself. You keep your eyes scanning the sides of the road as you watch the protestors accumulate.

“You’re not afraid if they notice who you are, right?” you ask, hearing a few people murmur about Penelope as they notice her on the back of the wagon.

“As I told you last night, I’m not fearful of their recognition. I’m fearful of not standin’ up for myself. For others like me,” she tells you with a bit of passion in her voice, “My whole life as the only Braithwaite daughter has been hell— bein’ told I could only do this, or say that. I was more often told no than anything else... I was never allowed to use my voice. And the best liberation I could give myself was lettin’ them all know that I’ve always had one, and I always will.”

You can’t help but smile a little as the wagon approaches the town hall, and it slows from its already snail-like pace.

Arthur stops the wagon right as a crowd begins to gather, and before Miss Cady can even get off of the wagon, slurs and other comments are thrown towards her like verbal rocks. But instead of pelting her and wounding her, they slide off of the woman as she goes up the steps of the town hall, turning to address both her supporters and objectors equally.

You too hop off of the wagon alongside Penelope, and you keep a hand close to your gun as you usher her to the hidden side of the wagon.

There, you find Arthur, who’s already frowning and looking over the side of the wagon to the growing crowd and tension that it brings.

“Seems like you all got a warm welcome,” he jokes without humor.

“Change always elicits that sort of thing,” Penelope murmurs, and you can see that she is a bit nervous now, “But I’d rather have that than what complacency has to offer.”

As Arthur continues taking in the crowd, you can see him focus on something, and his lips pull into a frown.

“Somethin’ wrong?” you ask him.

“Wolf, come on,” the outlaw grabs onto your arm, gently pulling you and leaving Penelope hidden behind the wagon, “We have an idiot to save.”

“An idiot?” you echo.

You’re unsure of who is deserving of such a label until you happen to see it too, a small fissure in the crowd. It’s an argument contained in its own bubble separate to the suffragette taking to the town hall’s steps to speak of her movement, and in the middle of it is Beau.

“Oh god, he really is an idiot,” you say.

Two older, bigger men surround Beau, who futilely tries to stand his ground as he is circled. Like vultures, the other men take turns picking on Beau, dragging him a bit further and further away from the crowd as their dispute grows worse.

“—nothin’ but a god damn disappointment if Tavish found out—”

“As he’d listen to you, after what _you_ did—”

“Beau, there you are!”

Arthur’s voice cuts through their moment like a knife, completely severing the fuss between the men and Beau as Beau’s face crumples out of relief at the sight of you and Arthur.

“I was wonderin’ where you went,” Arthur comes forward, allowing Beau to come over and escape the reach of the men surrounding him, “I go into the store for one minute, and then I find you in a protest?”

“You better be careful, Beau! Tavish always hears about things, one way or another!”

“Yeah, and that’s why he found out about you and Bessie!”

The man takes a step forward, but so does Arthur. Looming and emitting a dangerous aura, the other man instead goes to stand down, frowning and stomping away as Arthur sighs heavily.

“Penelope was right. You are a god damn idiot.”

“Those were my cousins,” Beau explains, ignoring Arthur’s comment, “God damn bastards too. Even though they got disowned, they still seem to think they got a right to behave just as horribly as Tavish.”

“Cousins or not, you need to get the hell outta here before you actually cause a god damn fight,” Arthur growls, pushing Beau from his back to the side of the crowd until you both find a nearby alleyway to escape the commotion and leering eyes of the townsfolk, “You act like Penelope is the one who was gonna get hurt, but I think it’s gonna be you!”

“I just— I couldn’t see her, and I panicked,” he admits, looking a bit sheepish and disappointed even with himself.

“And that’s a good reason to go runnin’ into all this?” Arthur sighs heavily, “You asked us to watch Penelope for a reason.”

“Well, you aren’t watchin’ her now!”

“They don’t have to, Beau.”

Beau jumps, and he turns, seeing Penelope eyeing him sadly from the end of the alleyway.

Pushing away from you both, Beau rushes to her, apologies already spilling from his lips.

“Oh, Penelope, I just— I’m so sorry—”

“Beau, please stop talkin’.”

Beau does, and he hangs his head, murmuring, “You’re mad at me.”

“Maybe a little. But I’m more so glad that you’re okay,” Penelope looks past Beau to you and Arthur, “And I have them to thank.”

“Listen, I— I didn’t want to ruin your march, I just—”

“You were scared for me,” she murmurs, “I know...”

“I’m sorry, Penelope, I really am.”

She smiles warmly as she cups Beau’s face, “As long as we both made it out fine, I don’t think you have to be...”

Beau sinks into her touch, eyes closing as he sighs wistfully, “I’m still gonna be.”

She laughs, letting her hand fall away as Beau faces her again.

“Well, we should probably make sure no one sees us so that we really don’t have a reason to be.”

“Oh, Penelope... I just wish... I just wish that I didn’t have to hide you.”

“One day, you won’t have to,” she promises him, giving him a chaste kiss on the cheek as she walks back towards the front of the town hall, and to where the gathering is already starting to dissipate, “We just have to be patient.”

Looking crushed, Beau watches her leave longingly. And once she disappears around the corner of the building, his shoulders fall and he lets out a ragged breath.

“It’s alright, kid,” Arthur pats him on the shoulder, “You’ll figure it out eventually.”

“I suppose a consolation is that eventually is a certainty,” he mumbles, and he then whistles for his horse, “Although, it certainly doesn’t feel like one.”

Beau’s Warmblood canters from the other side of the building to him, and he sighs.

“I suppose I should thank you for doing as you promised, even though it turns out that I was the biggest issue of all.”

“Love makes us idiots,” Arthur shrugs.

Beau doesn’t say anything to that. Rather, he goes into his saddlebag, pulling out a small money clip to hand over to Arthur.

The outlaw looks at the money held out to him, frowning.

“Here,” Beau states, motioning for Arthur to take the clip, “For all you’ve done for me.”

“Kid, I— . . .” Arthur presses his lips together, making a small noise before he reaches out.

For a moment, you believe that the outlaw is going to take the clip and claim the money as his own, but instead, he grabs Beau’s wrist and pushes the money back towards him.

Beau is surprised, blinking and staring at Arthur out of shock, just as you do.

“Keep it, kid,” Arthur murmurs, “You’re gonna need it if you n’ Penelope are gonna run off together.”

Beau’s brows furrow and he shakes his head, “But... Certainly you want some kind of repayment or thanks—”

“Promise me that you will stop bein’ an idiot as best you can, and you’ll do right by her,” Arthur tells him.

Beau deflates a little, and his hand with the money clip falls back to his side.

“I promise...”

“You have a chance, kid. You got hope. Don’t throw it all away over somethin’ that isn’t worth it... You won’t need to run away with her right now to keep on lovin’ her. Trust me.”

Beau nods once, hanging his head.

“T-Thank you, Arthur,” he glances at you too, “And you as well, Wolf...”

Softly, Arthur turns him by the shoulder, giving him a slight nudge towards his Dutch Warmblood, “Go on. Get home.”

Beau mounts onto his horse, looking grateful as he nods to you both before riding off, leaving you both behind the town hall for the first time since your ride to Caliga Hall.

Immediately, you look at Arthur and frown, the words escaping you before you can even stop them.

“Why didn’t you take the money?”

Hearing your question, Arthur sighs, and he nudges the dirt below with the toe his black boots, “It just didn’t feel right...”

Doubtful, you repeat him, “It didn’t feel right...”

“No,” he says simply, and then he pauses before he speaks again, his voice a bit strained this go around, “Why aren’t you wearin’ your necklace?”

Your lips slightly part and your cheeks burn as you look ahead to the backs of the other buildings along the road.

“I... I just didn’t want to wear it this mornin’...”

“You know, sometimes you are a horrible liar,” Arthur says softly.

Glaring at him, you huff, “What does it matter to you, anyway? Last night you were practically yellin’ at me to take it off. But now it’s a problem when I do?”

The outlaw lifts his head, obviously preparing himself for your bite as he lets out a deep breath, “Listen, Wolf... I meant it when I said that I’m sorry... I... I overstepped last night. I said things I shouldn’t have. And you got every right to be pissed at me for it... I’m not askin’ you nor am I expectin’ you to be anythin’ but... But I do want you to be honest with me.”

“That’s a bit of a paradox, considerin’ you can’t even tell me why you snapped in the first place,” you turn towards the outlaw, lightly glaring at him, “Why was it such a problem, Arthur? Why did you act like that?”

The outlaw grows quiet, and he looks towards the sweeping hills of Lemoyne that roll past the reaches of Rhodes.

“I’m not sure how to tell you why,” his voice is so soft and almost hollow as he speaks, his admission barely reaching your ears, “I know you want to know, and you deserve to... But... I don’t think I know how to.”

“Did... Did I do somethin’ wrong?”

Arthur looks at you abruptly, frowning with his eyes narrowing, “What? No! No, you didn’t do a damn thing wrong, okay? Everythin’ that night... it was all me.”

Glancing down at the dirt below, you bite at your lower lip, “Oh...”

“Listen, I’m a fool when it comes to words sometimes. There’s somethin’ I wanna say and it just comes out wrong or I’m not even sure how to get it out,” he sighs, running a hand over his face, “I just... I’m sorry for what happened that night... I didn’t expect for that to come out of me as it did, and I promise that you didn’t do anythin’ wrong, nor am I mad at you... I’m just a bastard who gets angry before he realizes what he’s doin’.”

“I’m not mad anymore,” you murmur, “I just... I just wanna know why the necklace was such a problem.”

“The necklace isn’t a problem,” Arthur insists, “I... I was just overreactin’ about somethin’ else... The necklace just brought me back to it.”

You frown as Arthur whistles for the horses, and you can hear their answering neighs from the road as you look to the outlaw.

“I know I’m even more of a bastard for askin’, but,” Arthur glances up to you, “You didn’t take it off because of me, did you?”

Your cheeks heat, and your sputter somewhat, “N-No... I... I took it off and put it in my satchel because I didn’t want us to fight anymore. Simple as that.”

“Sure sounds like you took it off for me...” the corner of his mouth quirks upward a bit.

“I didn’t take it off—” you cut your rebuttal short, snorting hotly through your nose before you hiss, “It’s just a damn necklace, Arthur. It isn’t such a big deal...”

“I know that it _is,_ ” he says quietly, and you stop right in your tracks as he goes on, “The way you reacted, the fact you bought it on the spot at the fence last night... When you even put it on,” his eyes lower to the ground, and a warm smile begins to play over his lips, “I could tell it means a lot to you, even now...”

You don’t think your cheeks could redden any more than the tinge you expect to be coloring them at Arthur’s words, and you let out a shuddered breath, “It... It just reminds me of a better time. When I was happy.”

That has Arthur looking at you curiously as the horses approach you both, “When you were happy?”

Letting out a slight, clipped noise at Arthur’s poking, you relent some, “It was a gift... from... from that boy I told you about.”

“That boy,” Arthur echoes, voice low.

“The one I’ve talked to you about. The one who saw me in Blackwater when I was eighteen or so,” you explain with a bit of mortification underlying your words, going to D’or’s side to mount onto her, “That boy.”

Arthur hums, “That boy,” he repeats.

“ _Yes,_ ” you hiss slightly, “He gave the necklace to me when he left... It was the last time I saw him, and it’s the only thing I ever got from him apart from what he made me feel... And that was happy.”

Arthur remains quiet as he heaves himself onto his Walker’s saddle, and the two of you begin riding along the back of Rhodes and towards camp, his silence only making you feel awkward and as though it were a pressure you could feel.

“It’s not that I am holdin’ onto some childhood crush,” you say in some defense towards yourself, “It’s been almost ten years since I met him and saw him last, and I knew even then that it wasn’t meant to be... But I held onto the necklace because it was the first time I felt like there was somethin’ _more_ to my life. Somethin’ more than bein’ stuck inside my father’s cabin and wonderin’ if I’d ever get out... It was a hope that kept me goin’ until my father got sick, and things changed.”

As you round the back of the general store and you get the horses onto the main road leading out of Rhodes, Arthur asks, “He did that for you?”

“Yeah... He... He was kind. And sweet... He saved me from other boys, ones who didn’t mean well by me,” your murmur, “We just... circled one another after that. I kept sneakin’ out into Blackwater, and we’d meet at the gazebo they’d just built there, where the bank is and town hall is goin’... It just felt like it was us against the world...”

Quietly, Arthur whispers, “Do you still care about him? Even now?”

“I have no idea where he is or what he’s doin’. He could even be dead for all I know,” you grow quiet, frowning lightly as you gingerly add, “But... I guess in some way, I still care for him. Somethin’ like that just... it never quite goes away, does it?”

“No...” Arthur is just as hushed, “It doesn’t.”

You hum, looking ahead onto the road and to the nearing thicket of trees that line the entrance to Clemens Point, “I hope he’s doin’ well... Even if he’s completely different. If he’s got a wife n’ kids now...” your smile falls a little at that, “He deserves to be happy.”

Arthur is silent beside you as you slow down to take the path into Clemens Point, and as you get under the thicket of trees, you begin to walk D’or down the trail, only to feel off about it. Looking over your shoulder, you see Arthur, his Walker now completely stopped as he grips his reins, his head hanging low and the brim of his worn, leather hat covering his face.

“Arthur? Are you alright?”

“You think he deserves that?”

“What?” you narrow your eyes on the outlaw, your confusion growing just as the cloud around Arthur does, “You’re askin’ me if I think he deserves to be happy?”

“Yes... He could be anythin’ at this point, Wolf. He could be a criminal, a killer... He could’ve been a boy who did good, only for him to grow up into a bad man who only makes life Hell for others,” Arthur looks at you then, his face pinched in a very odd way, “You think he still deserves happiness, no matter what he is now?”  
You make a slight noise at Arthur’s question, your uncertainty of the man evident, “Well, sure, I guess... I mean, I don’t know what he is. He could be bad. He could be makin’ poor decisions... I could even hate who he is now,” you say, and Arthur's face crumples a little while you continue, “But for all I know, he could still be tryin’ like he was when I met him. Tryin’ to be good. Because he did good by me, Arthur. I don’t think it’s bad of me to wish good on him, because no matter what he is now... I loved who he was when I was with him.”

Arthur sucks in a sharp breath, and you see him look to the sky while a litany of emotions passes over his face. His skin wrinkles and draws up, and you can almost _hear_ what is transpiring in his head before he lowers his chin, and stares straight ahead towards camp.

Sunlight filters through the leaves overhead, casting shadows and broken fractures of light that dance from the way the wind shifts the canopy above. The golden rays catch on Arthur’s hand as he reaches over, and you make a small noise of surprise as it snakes into your satchel and he rummages through it for a few moments.

“Arthur, what are you doin’—”

“You know, you’re too hopeful for the world and the bastards who live in it,” he tells you, and his words are angry, but not in any way towards you as his hand leaves your satchel, his fingers now balled into a fist as you eye him with a bit of irritation, “But you aren’t even hopeful for yourself.”

Furrowing your brow at him, you part your lips, “Arthur?”

“It ain’t right, Wolf. I met you because you sacrificed everythin’ and then took on a debt to save your father, only to find out that the doctor you trusted to treat your father valued money more than his life. I was there when you killed Francis, when you found out your mother was alive and you were lied to almost your entire life... And despite all of this, you’ve tried to help everyone you come across, and all I have ever seen you do is give and give even when you don’t have shit to offer,” Arthur’s just about breathless after his words, and he stares at you headily, “And now, when you find this necklace... When you find somethin’ durin’ a time when _you_ were happy and had hope for yourself, you hide it away because I couldn’t handle it.”

You watch as Arthur brings his hand up, and with the other, he grabs onto your own by the wrist. Taking it, he opens up your left palm to him, and it’s then that you see the chain of the necklace hanging out and dangling between his fingers, right before he opens his hand to place the simple piece of jewelry in your own.

“You have too much faith in me,” he tells you as it falls into your palm, the metal warmed by his calloused skin, his fingers brushing the inside of your wrist as his one hand falls away, and he closes your fingers around the necklace with the other, “And I don’t deserve you to sacrifice your happiness for my own.”  
As he grows quiet, his hand falls away, leaving your fingers wrapped delicately around the necklace, and your breathing shudders a bit as Arthur grabs onto his Walker’s reins once more.

“Come on,” he tells you softly, “We ain’t done yet...”

Arthur doesn’t wait, gently spurring his Walker forward and making his way to camp as you tighten your grip on your necklace, feeling your lungs constrict in your chest as he leaves you behind now.  
Your eyes water as you open your hand, staring at the chain and the flower pendant resting against your skin as your throat feels as though it were in a vice.

And quickly, you grab D’or’s reins with your necklace still in your grip, turning the mare abruptly until you’re riding at Arthur’s side, your voice rough with emotion and demand.

“Why—” you begin, and Arthur stops his Walker once you pivot D’or in front of it, “Why are you tellin’ me this?”

“Because, you’re the most selfless person I know, Wolf. And me? I’m the most selfish.”

You shake your head, pointing a finger at him, “No— _no._ You can’t just... _drop_ this on me and tell me it’s because— because—” you make a frustrated noise, “Fuck, I don’t even know _why_ you’re sayin’ all this, and I sure as hell don’t—”

“Do I need a reason why?” Arthur argues, and your eyes narrow on him at the question, “Listen, I’m just bein' honest with you... You... You’ve been too forgivin’ with me, and you have always done too much when I only keep takin’. If wearin’ that necklace makes you happy, if that’s what you want to do— why are you lettin’ me stop you—”

“Because I— I  _care_ about you, you dumbass!”

Your shrill shout echoes slightly through the trees, causing a rabbit and a squirrel to take their leave alongside a few birds, your lungs heaving as you look at Arthur, wide-eyed and raw.

Arthur looks no better, eyes also dilating and his breath catching, and you force yourself to look away from him as your skin heats, and your voice loses its volume and upset.

“I... I’m sorry,” you start, inhaling deeply as your eyes dart about the trail before you as your brain reels, as your own outburst caught you by surprise, “I didn’t mean to yell, or— . . . or call you a dumbass...”

Arthur remains silent, and you swallow thickly as you shake your head, loosening your one hand to reveal your necklace as you exhale shakily.

“Just... I _care_ about you, okay? . . . I have for a while... Shit, I don’t know exactly when I viewed you as somethin’ other than the collector Strauss sent after me, but I fuckin’ have for a while now. I have because I’ve gone through so much shit with you... You’re right. You were there for a lot with me. My father, Francis, my mother... You helped me so god damn much, and you... you honestly saved my life,” Arthur looks away from you, and you close your hand back around the metal that rests in your palm, “And this necklace... it... it may have meanin’ to me, but it’ll mean nothin’ if it’s a problem between you and me.

You hear Arthur inhale sharply, and you glance at the man sheepishly, “Wolf, I told you... You don’t have to spare me anythin’—”

“I’m not sparin’ you,” you say with a bit of a harsh tone, “I’m sparin’ _us._ ”

Arthur’s voice is a bit hollow, and he murmurs, “You act like that necklace is gonna break us, Wolf...”

“Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t,” you start, and you take your hand with the necklace and reach back for your satchel, shoving the necklace inside as Arthur watches you closely,

“But I don’t want it to. I don’t want anythin’ to. And I’m just so afraid that it’ll be anythin’ and I don’t even want to give it the chance to...”

“ _Jesus..._ ”

You look over, finding Arthur running a hand along his face as he stares at camp some yards away. You only stare at him, your breath caught in your throat.

“You...” Arthur’s words die away, and he lowers his head, “God, Wolf... What are we doin’?”

“I don’t know, but... All of this, Arthur... it’s got me worried,” you tell him, and the outlaw’s green eyes meet your own, holding your gaze second for second, “I... I heard Micah and Dutch earlier, while I was walkin’ to your tent... I didn’t mean to overhear him arguin’ with you n’ Hosea, but I did. And what I heard? . . . It wasn’t good, Arthur. None of it was.”

Gritting his teeth, Arthur scowls nastily, “No... No, it wasn’t...”

“I guess, hearin’ how Dutch was so apt on rippin’ Beau and Penelope apart for his own gain, I... I worry that the same might happen to you and me... And I don’t... I don’t know how I could cope with that.”

You blink in shock as you feel Arthur’s hand grab onto yours once more, and you look at the outlaw then, your lips parted softly as he squeezes onto your hand.

“Nothin’ like that’s gonna happen,” he tells you, his voice so strong and certain that you feel the words wash over you like the roll of the lake water in the distance, “Not ever, okay?”

“O-Okay,” you breathe, and you squeeze his hand back.

Arthur hesitates for a moment, looking like he’s going to say something else. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he lets the words die unspoken on his tongue, and his hand finally falls away from yours.

“Let’s just get back to camp,” he whispers, “We’ll worry about things when there’s a reason to.”

Silently, you spur D’or, keeping your mare beside Arthur’s Walker as you approach the camp. You see Jack running around, his bare feet kicking up grass and dirt alike as you and Arthur near your camp at Clemens Point once more.

But as you get closer, it’s clear that something is wrong.

Charles takes notice of your return, and he comes forward, eyes locking onto Arthur as the outlaw rides up and slows his Walker.

“Charles,” the outlaw greets briskly, “Somethin’ up?”

“It’s Trelawny,” Charles starts, his deep voice edging on a dangerous tone, “He hasn’t come to meet up with Dutch like he said he would. We think he’s been taken by bounty hunters.”

“Great,” Arthur seethes a bit, and he takes off his hat, “Figures that eel would get caught sometime... but by bounty hunters?”

Charles nods, “He was comin’ to talk to Dutch today about them... Apparently, he’s got quite a few on his tail,” Charles’ voice grows more displeased, “We all do, actually.”

That makes you frown, and D’or shifts under you as you ask, “They haven’t figured out we’re here, have they?”

“If we don’t grab Trelawny, they sure as hell will know before sundown,” Arthur growls, “Trelawny will tell anyone anythin’ if you beat him or get him drunk enough. And a fist always got Trelawny talkin’ quicker than a glass of whiskey could.”

“That’s why I’m askin’ you to come with me to find him,” Charles tells Arthur, “He wrote to Dutch recently, mentioned where he was camping while he tried to restart this gold mining scam of his. Figured we could go there, see if we could find anythin’ there to see what happened and track him and the hunters down.”

Nodding, Arthur sighs haggardly, “Sounds solid enough.”

Looking at Arthur, you ask, “So we’re huntin’ Trelawny down now?”

“No, Charles and I will,” Arthur informs you, and he looks at you in the eye as you furrow your brow out of confusion.

“What?” you ask incredulously, “You think I can’t handle myself with bounty hunters?”

“No. I think you’d handle yourself just fine. You’ve proved that to me enough times over and over again,” Arthur sighs, muttering, “It’s Trelawny I’m worried about.”

At his grumpy admission, you can’t help it. You start snickering, and soon, it grows into a full-on laugh. Even Charles seems charmed by the situation, and Arthur sends you a tired look.

“You— you’re worried about _Trelawny?”_ your humor is still evident as you question the outlaw at your side, “That man, over bounty hunters and any other nasty things we might face?”

Arthur huffs, “Listen, I know how he is with you... He does things he shouldn’t, and frankly, I’m not gonna tolerate him actin’ like such a fool with you when he has no damn reason to be.”

You raise a brow at Arthur, “Is that so?”

“Yes,” he grimaces, “I told you, he’s got a family in Saint Denis. A lovin’ wife, and kids who adore him just as much as they miss him when he’s gone... And when he’s gone, they might as well not exist with how he acts. It ain’t fair to them just as it ain’t fair to you.”

Growing serious, you duck your head, “I... I forgot about that.”

“Well I haven't," Arthur grumbles, “And the last thing I want is for you to come n’ save him and have him pull his act on you when he ain’t got no damn right to do it in the first place.”

Sighing, you ask, “Fine... But while you’re gone, what am I gonna do?”

This time, Charles speaks up, “I overheard Lenny talking about some Raider hideout he heard about earlier this morning. He plans on checkin’ it out... Maybe you could go with him?”

“Hm,” you hum, “I suppose I could... I haven’t really gotten to see the kid since that night in Valentine...”

Groaning, Arthur mutters, “Don’t even talk about that...”

Rolling your eyes without any heat, you let out a breath, “Fine... I guess I could go help Lenny while you all try and help Trelawny.”

“Good. It’s settled,” Arthur looks to Charles then, “You got Taima?”

“Here she is!”

Kieran gives the reins over to Charles, smiling brightly, “She’s rather eager to get some time out on the road today.”

Charles smiles softly, nodding to Kieran once, “I’ll be sure to ride her well, then.”

Getting up onto Taima, you begin to dismount D’or as Charles gets himself onto his mare’s saddle. As for Kieran, he starts to walk away, heading back over to where the horses are and leaving you three behind.

“Well, I hope it goes well,” you tell them.

Snorting, Arthur says, “Oh, I imagine it should. If he isn’t an eel, Trelawny might as well be a roach.”

That gets a laugh out of you as you watch the men turn their horses, and you let out a small breath as you watch them leave.

Now alone, you pet D’or, looking over to the scout fire to see Lenny drinking coffee as Javier and Sean talk around the fire. At Sean’s side is Karen, who leans against him with her hand on his chest, no so open with her affection of the man that you can’t help but smile as you walk over to see the lot of them.

“Ah, Lobo!” Javier smirks, “Come, sit at the fire with us for a little bit! It’s been too long since we’re gotten to talk.”

“Yeah, I don’t think since Colter really,” you point out, and as Javier whistles, you look at Lenny, “And with you, we haven’t done much together since the night we got drunk in Valentine with Arthur.”

Lenny groans just as Arthur had at the reminder, “Jesus, wasn’t that a night?”

With a lively slap to his knee, Sean jests, “Oi! You should come drinkin’ with me one night, Wolf! You’ve never truly seen anyone handle their alcohol till then! I’d make pansies outta ‘dese men here!”

“Last time you got drunk was at your return party,” Javier quirks a brow and smirks at the boisterous Irishman, “You and Karen couldn’t get off each other, and you even used John’s tent to fuc—”

“Oh, hush about that now!” Sean doesn’t look even a tad bit embarrassed, and Karen, while slightly flushed, doesn’t seem to regretful herself at his side, “All we did was borrow ‘da ‘ting until we was finished!”

“You feel asleep immediately after. John had to sleep on one of the tables... Though, he wasn’t too sober himself,” Javier chuckles.

Sean waves Javier’s words off with an infallible amount of confidence, “So what? We borrowed it ‘till mornin’. Or noon. Whenever the time fancied us. You know, nothin’ can say more about a proper round than sleepin’ right after!”

“If that’s what you have to tell yourself to feel better,” Lenny jokes, raising his mug in a mocking toast, “then I’m inclined to agree!”

“Oi, you cheeky fucker!”

As the men start to banter, you sigh with humor while a clearing throat catches all of your attention.

You hear Karen snicker, and your eyes are diverted to where she beams at you against Sean’s side, “You n’ Arthur got drunk together?”

The pressure from her question is mounting as the men settle and quiet, obviously finding this new leg of conversation much more interesting than Sean’s escapades.

“Lenny was there too!”

“Actually, I don’t think I was. For most of it,” Lenny rubs at his chin, squinting as he tries to make his brain remember that night past the fog of passed time and inebriation, “I was in the saloon one moment... and then I was in the stable... and then there was that time... no, I didn’t want the dog to bite me, so I hid in the stagecoach, and I scared the driver and he scared me when he called for the sheriff... I tried to run but fell... and then I woke up in jail.”

Your eyes bulge a little at his comment, “Wait— you got arrested?”

“Yeah, before the night was out apparently.”

Huffing, you shake your head, “Explains why we couldn’t find you that night... We spent hours tryin’ and we never could figure out or find where you were... Then again, we were drunk as skunks who didn’t know what they were doin’ half of the time they were doin’ it. I even grabbed a pot of flowers at one point because I forgot I was even lookin’ for you. Arthur wasn’t much better off, though, in my defense.”

“So, you and Arthur had the night mostly to yourselves, huh?” Karen gets a dangerous twinkle in her eyes, “How did that go?”  
You feel the heat of your embarrassment rise to your cheeks as Sean, Javier, and Lenny look at you.

“Not like you’re apparently thinkin’,” you tell her, your voice pitched high and a bit croaky before you catch yourself, “But we weren’t... well, we weren’t saints while drunk. As heinous as we weren’t bright, I suppose... There was a man who did some hecklin’ to us at the bar... We may have hung him behind the saloon from a tree... By his belt. Made him naked as the day he was born.”

Everyone laughs at your admission then, and you fidget a little in your seat as Karen inevitably presses further.

“Oh, but nothin’ else happened?” she asks with an innocent air that speaks of nothing more than focused intention, “Nothin’ at all?”

“We got chased off by the law after that... Once the guy got down and was able to report us,” you murmur, “We had to run off... But things were blackin’ out at that point... Woke up in the mornin’ under a tree, little ways out of town...”

Karen makes a disappointed face, and you furrow your own at her for it.

“What?”

“Do you remember anythin’ else?”

“If you’re askin’ what I’m thinkin’ you’re askin’, that didn’t happen. Even with what little I can remember,” you tell her, “We fell asleep talkin’ on the ground. We came to regret that.”

“’Course you did,” she says with a slight pout.

“Why does it matter?” you ask her, “Can’t Arthur n’ I be friends?”

The men chuckle a bit at your statement, and you look at them incredulously.

“What? I’m bein’ serious?”

“Oh, Lobo. Do your eyes not happen to see?” he asks with charm in his voice, “Can you not hear? Do you not feel anything? For either yourself or for Arthur?”

Frowning, you mutter, “I can do all of those things just fine.”

“But not with him, it seems,” Javier murmurs back.

Standing up, you let out a shrill breath, “Listen, I didn’t come over here to get berated over Arthur—”

“Relax, Lobo. We’re only curious... Well, Karen is more than curious. I’m sure she has money on this somewhere,” at Karen’s small shout of protest, Javier continues, “But we’re just tryin’ to talk to you. If you want, we can talk about somethin’ else. We don’t wanna run you off.”

Lowering your guard some, you sheepishly sit back down, look at the four of them as you try and square away your heart and breathing.

“Sorry, just... It’s been a long day today.”

“It sounded like you two were fightin’, on the road there outside camp,” Lenny tilts his head at you, “You two alright?”

“If you’re worried that we are fightin’ like we were before, then I’m glad to say we aren’t,” you sigh, “We... We made up with that as best we could. But some other things happened, and Arthur’s just bein’ a dolt, of course.”

Karen shifts closer, leaning off of Sean’s side, “Other things?”

“He just overreacted last night over a necklace I found... It used to be mine, but Arthur just freaked out when I grabbed it. I have no idea why, but he kept apologizin’ to me about it... I don’t know, he’s been actin’ a little off since then... Like somethin’ has changed, but I don’t know what or why.”

“Ol’ English can be pretty stunted sometimes,” Sean tells you, “When I first popped up into tha gang, he n’ John were at each other’s throats every night, it was like. Was the most annoyin’ thing ever.”

“That’s because you came in right after John got back,” Javier points out.

“Oh... Arthur told me a little about that...” you murmur.

Javier sighs, “It was a rough time. For Abigail and Jack, but also for Arthur and John. While a lot of us were mad at John for runnin’ off as he did, our heat didn’t compare to their scalding rage... Think Abigail and Arthur were the maddest at him.”

Lenny frowns, looking at you all, “What happened?”

“It’s too complicated to truly explain all at once, but... John ran away about two years ago. He just disappeared one night, took his horse and all his money, and ran off without a word to anyone. We thought he got kidnapped at first, and some of us even worried that he died... but we caught wind of him livin’ out of a hotel a few towns over, and that let us know everythin’ we needed to. Especially by the time Arthur tried to find him, only to find out that John left the day before and was gone.”

Lenny scowls at that, asking, “John ran away? What for?”

“It’s... well, it was over Jack. John hasn’t... well he hasn’t always been a fan of bein’ called his father, at least in the sense that he didn’t have faith in bein’ called that.”  
Lenny lets out a heavy breath by blowing it past his lips, his head slightly shaking, “That’s a lot...”

“It was,” Javier murmurs, “Considerin’ John ran away from us for a year before comin’ back.”

“A year?” you ask.

Javier nods, “At that point, we thought he’d never come back. But Abigail and Arthur... They’re the only ones who had hope that he would. We thought they would be happy to see him, especially Arthur, but... you’ve seen how that’s worked out. I can understand why Abigail has such a resentment, but Arthur... he took it personally.”

“I’ve seen Arthur take some ‘tings personally,” Sean whistles, making a sour face, “Makes me fear any sorta maker at the end of things.”

“Why would he take it personally, though?” Lenny asks, “I mean, I get they are close, but... still.”

“They grew up together, yes. But I think it has to do more over _why_ John left than him even runnin’ at all... But I’m not sure what.”

Huffing, Sean mutters, “Well, if anyone would know, it’d be you. You’ve been here longer than any of us poor bastards.”

Shrugging, Javier adjusts some of the firewood before him absently, “It’s just how it is sometimes, with him.”

You snort in agreement, and then Lenny looks at you.

“Say, why didn’t you ride out with him n’ Charles?” he starts, “I thought you’d surely go with them to rescue Trelawny.”

“Trelawny is... Well, he gets a certain way with me. Arthur isn’t a fan of it, of course.”

Karen smirks, “It’s like two dogs fightin’ over the same bone.”

“No, Karen, it ain’t— it ain’t like that,” you blush, “With that context, Trelawny already has one. In Saint Denis...”

“Ah yes. His family,” Javier nods once, “The one that doesn’t seem to exist when he isn’t in town.”

Karen deflates a little, “Oh... I had... I didn’t know he had one...”

“He makes sure not to let anyone he’s wantin’ to play around with know if it messes with his trips,” Javier explains, “And a lot of people don’t know.”

Lenny hums then as the others begin to talk about Trelawny, “So, you’re free for the rest of the day?”

“Yeah... In fact, I actually came over here to talk to you, before this happened,” you begin to explain, “Charles mentioned there was a Lemoyne Raider hangout near here? One you wanted to mess with?”

A wicked grin passes over Lenny’s lips, “Oh, you bet there is. You wanna come with?”

“That was the plan,” you smile back.

“Good! Looks like we got ourselves a plan,” Lenny claps his hands and stands up, drawing the attention of the others as you follow suit, “Me n’ Wolf are gonna head out, mess with that Raider hideout I heard about.”

Javier ducks his head at you, “Alright, stay safe.”

Sean smirks at you both then, “Oh, kill as many of those bastards as you can! Let ‘em know an Irishman says hello!”

“God, I love it when you’re a bastard,” Karen says dreamily.

“No wonder you’re in love with him all the time,” Javier jests.

Despite the barb, Sean laughs heartily, “See! Now this is a man who gets me!”

“Come on, Wolf,” Lenny chuckles under his words, and the two of you break off from the group together.

The sun is moving further down in the sky, starting to turn it orange with the beginning hues of the sunset as you walk with Lenny over to D’or. Thankfully, his Light Palomino, Maggie, is already hitched nearby. The Mustang recognizes Lenny as he waltzes over, raising her head and bobbing it at him in greeting while Lenny goes to saddle up.

“So, tell me about this hideout you’ve heard of,” you get onto D’or as well, and you grab your carbine off of her saddle holster to place over your chest, “I actually had a run-in with those bastards yesterday, when we went out with Sadie.”

“It’s nearby, so that would explain it. Supposedly they’re been dealin’ weapons n’ whatnot from an old abandoned estate house, somewhat down the road. Shady Belle is what I think it’s called... Ever since I found out about it, all I’ve wanted to do is run off there and kill those bastards myself.”

Tilting your head, you both turn your horses so you can begin your trek, “You seem very passionate about their demise.”

“Well, they’re passionate about mine,” the young man tells you, “As a negro, they think I’m good for nothin’, and they want me dead for it.”  
You grow a little quiet as you ride your mares out of camp, “Arthur mentioned that to me... About how Lemoyne would be for you, Tilly, n’ Charles especially...”

“Javier and Sean understand it in some ways. With Javier bein’ Mexican, and Sean bein’ Irish. These folk hate immigrants of any kind. One reason they hate Saint Denis so much, for all it brings in. But they hate black folks more. Poor Charles has it bad on both ends, with his mom bein’ an Indian too,” Lenny’s face pinches as you get out onto the main road, “I just don’t understand how so many stupid people can have so much hate in ‘em.”

“Sometimes anger is all someone who doesn’t know what they’re confronted with can feel. And for them, it’s because they refuse to try and know better,” you tell him, “I’ll admit, I can’t relate to what you all go through or deal with here in Lemoyne in that sense. I won’t try to either. But just know that there are people in the world who ain’t gonna want you dead just for existin’.”

That brings a slight smile to Lenny’s face, “Oh, I know there are. You’re one of ‘em, Wolf. Most of the gang is too... ‘Sides from Micah, or Bill when he gets angry or drunk.”

“So all the time, then.”

Lenny laughs, nodding, “Yeah. All the time is right,” he pauses for a second, “But I remember my dad when I deal with anyone who thinks and acts like those damn Raiders... You know, he and my mom, they were former slaves, freed once the war ended... My father, he never let that stop him. He was educated, and smart. He taught me how to read n’ write. He wanted me to be a good man...” Lenny’s voice grows soft, “When I was fifteen, he was beaten to death by some men, ones who felt just like the Raiders do. Couldn’t stand that a darkie was gonna start workin’ in law in their town, so they jumped him... That anger, it kills, Wolf. Not on its own, but because they think it justifies it. Like they were doin’ nothin’ more than squashin’ a roach...”

You don’t say anything, you’re not sure what you _could_ say. But Lenny takes your silence as an opportunity to continue.

“My dad wanted me to be a good man. He wanted me to live past their hate and to be better than it. Above it,” he lets out a haggard breath, “He gave me a silver pocket watch.

The one his owner gave him when he got freed. The only thing he kept from that time apart from his desire to become somethin’ of his own design and not the one made for him... And I lost it when we fled Blackwater... I lost it, and here I am, goin’ to go kill some Raiders because it’s the only thing I’m capable of doin’. He’d be ashamed.”

Frowning, you murmur, “Your father wouldn’t be ashamed of you, Lenny.”

“The reason I fell into this gang was for the fact that I murdered the men who killed my father, and I had to run for it,” Lenny tells you, “My father never believed in killin’ another man, no matter what for... I knew just by avengin’ him that I would’ve broken his heart...”

Looking down to D’or for a moment, you attempt to find your voice as Lenny stews beside you, “You know... My father hated killin’ too. Told me I should never kill a man or woman... The only time he killed was when we hunted animals, for food or for makin’ sure they didn’t kill anyone else... But human life, to him, it was precious. Sacred. He raised me to try and treat people out of respect for that.”

Lenny glances at you as you continue.

“I’m not sure how much you know, but... the reason I got into this gang is that I took a loan from Strauss. I took fifty dollars because my father was sick and dying. I had sold everythin’ from my clothes to even food in the cabinets to try and help him, and the loan was the last thing I could do... And the doctor in town, Francis... he took advantage. The supposed medicine he gave my father, it was what killed him.”

Lenny swallows hard, nodding, “I do remember a little... That... Wolf, you didn’t deserve that.”

“My father didn’t deserve it,” you murmur, “I remember figurin’ it out when Jack was gettin' sick from what Abigail got from Francis... He had killed other people too, not just my father. Thought he could make people sick to keep his business runnin’ and his pockets full... And I was just so angry... Angry that I had signed my life away just for him to take my father’s... and so I took his for it.”

Lenny remains quiet as he guides you down the road, the area growing a bit swampier as you ride further on.

“I know in some ways, my father would be disappointed. He never would condone what I did to Francis, and I know that killin’ him never helped bring him back, but... I think I would be harder on myself than he would ever be with me if I had let him go, knowin’ he would’ve killed so many other people before somethin’ was done about it... So maybe I couldn’t save my father, but I was able to spare others from Francis.”

Lenny ducks his head, humming, “Suppose I saved others from those bastards, too... They tormented quite a few people in town. Kinda were the town gang of their own... They had a lot of people scared before they died. And after... they seemed so relieved.”

“You didn’t kill them out of callousness or without reason, Lenny. I’m sure your father would’ve understood that. I’m sure you even understand it in like that, in some way,” you sigh, “There’s no true way to accept an action like this within yourself. The issue in itself is a conflict. But it happened, and the only thing you can do is move on, see if there is something you can learn from it, or accept from it. Otherwise, you’re just gonna drive yourself to an early grave with how you kill yourself over it.”

At your words, Lenny bobs his head in agreement, “You know, I think you’re the only person apart from Arthur who gets it.”

Frowning, you ask, “Gets what?”

“The whole revenge thing... I mean, I guess Sadie would, but I can tell she wouldn’t care if she killed O’Driscolls after what happened to her husband a few months ago,” Lenny tells you, “Arthur was the only one I had in the camp to talk about it to for a while, once I first joined. I had been on the run for a while, about some years before I ended up in the gang. It was a weight I carried and couldn’t share with anyone until then.”

“How long did you carry it for?”

“About three years, before I ended up here.”

You hang your head a little, thinking of Lenny’s time on the run from his actions, about how far they carried him and displaced him all the same.

“It must’ve been hard,” you say, “To be runnin’ for so long without gettin’ to shed that weight.”

Lenny lets out a tired breath, “I’ll admit, it was tough at first. Especially at the beginnin’. But there wasn’t any goin’ back, and... there was a part of me that didn’t want to. My dad was a good man underneath all of his intelligence and optimism. He didn’t deserve to die just because he was emancipated or wise, or just all around different from the white folk in town... I know down in my heart, despite all the trouble it’s caused me... I’d kill those bastards again if I got the chance.”

Your mind drifts to Francis, about the hypothetical of having a second chance to do things over. If Francis were still alive, and your father only freshly buried. With you and the gang still camping outside of Blackwater by Pacific Union Camp, and your life feeling as though it had ended in some way and began in another.

And then, your mind drifts to that night— the night of the ferry arriving ahead of schedule, of when the dots connected into such an ugly picture because of how Jack refused to take the medicine that was given by Francis. The rage that you felt, the betrayal, the utmost amount of _agony_ at the realization that, in so many ways, you idiotically played into your father’s death.

Through ignorant and stubborn trust in a man who deserved it less than the money you had given him. Through a naïve faith that, if you kept trying and tried hard enough, he would get better.

But also, by trying to save your father’s life away by signing away your own, for it only to mean nothing in the end.

If you could be back at that point now, knowing and feeling as you do... would you still kill Francis? Would any of this have changed anything else?

It’s something you continue to think about as Lenny slows Maggie, turning her off of the man road onto a bit of an older path. It’s not as worn as the road you had just turned off of, with grass trying to reclaim the length of exposed dirt that winds and slithers through the cypress trees like a snake made of earth. You can see Lenny preparing himself as a wooden sign, worn with neglect and time, declares the location to be none other than Shady Belle.

The white placard is covered in ivy and peeling paint as Lenny halts Maggie in front of it, dismounting his Mustang as he glances to you while he grabs his repeater from her saddle.

“We’ll approach the rest of the way on foot. Take those Raiders by surprise,” he says lowly to you, his voice somewhat hushed, “Remember, it’s said they were dealin’ firearms.

They could have a whole army’s supply of an arsenal, for all we know.”

As you begin to dismount D’or, you snort, “Guess I’ll just have to be quick to shoot, right?”

Chuckling, Lenny murmurs, “You bet.”

Together, you arm yourselves, approaching the rest of the way on foot as the estate of Shady Belle comes into view.

The mansion is still a sight to see, despite its condition and wear from time and the use it's faced by the Raiders. An entire trench is dug out front, lined with spiked, wooden barricades as well as sandbags lining areas like the porch to offer cover as well as protection from any pursuits.

Ivy also clings onto its massive columns out front, and the right side of the house, claiming the space as its own as it winds under wooden shingles and through broken glass panes in the windows. It shifts in the wind, the countless leaves almost dancing as you look on to the two-story shell of what once was a proud home, and you see what it has become.

Men, dressed like the Raiders who had attacked you and Arthur the day previous, lumber about the yard, passing by the algae-ridden fountain out front, going from their tents set up outside of the house, to one of the two wagons at its side that are full of a plethora of items, ranging from gallon glass jugs of moonshine, to brand new carbines and rifles.

“Shit,” Lenny whispers, and he slinks against the trunk of a tree just as you do for cover, “They really are armed.”

Humming, you gauge the area, looking and seeing how many Raiders you can spot.

“Think there’s about twenty of ‘em. But there could be more in the house we can’t see.”

Lenny snorts, “Should we tell them to come out before we start?”

Lenny’s joke has you cackling under your breath, and you shake your head as you grow serious once more.

“I guess the best approach is to try and pick them off before we get too close... We run in there, we’re gonna get either overwhelmed or shot.”

Gritting his teeth, Lenny readies his repeater, raising it up as he brings the sights to his eye level, and aims.

“If there’s one thing I plan on, Wolf, it’s that I’m not gonna let these bastards kill me.”

Lenny fires without hesitation, as ready and eager as he always is while you prepare yourself. The shot rings out, the sound following the bullet before it rips into one of the

Raiders who was standing at the front of the house.

His now limp body falls against the porch, causing the other men to instantly react, jumping into various positions as they grab their own weapons and begin to eye in the direction of Lenny’s shot.

“Come on, Wolf!” Lenny yells to you, “Let’s get ‘em!”

“You messed with the wrong men!” one of them shouts, “We’re the Lemoyne Raiders! We won’t go down so easil—”  
The man’s speech is cut short by the premature punctuation of a bullet from your carbine, and you let out an irritated breath as Lenny smirks at your shot.

“God, I’m not ready for a diatribe,” you tell him, “Let’s go ahead and get these bastards.”

With a wicked grin, Lenny raises his gun once more.

“Oh, now that sounds more like it!”

**\---**

The last shot rings out, and you let out a shrill breath as Lenny appears from behind his cover near the front of the house.

Thankfully, it hadn’t taken you long, and together, you managed to clear out the Raiders in record time. It did help that the men were as ignorant as they were brash and egotistical, with them practically running into your sights any time you were getting ready to fire. It seemed like the men would rather “die for their cause” then actually think about what they were doing.

You hear the metal frame of one of the wagons creaks as Lenny hops into the back, taking stock of the haul you’d have on the wagon with a smirk. You stand at the back on the ground, leaning against the wood of it while Lenny rejoices at your take.

“Looks like some great weapons here! And some other supplies too!” Lenny grabs a can of cut pineapples and hands it to you, “This’ll really help out the camp.”

As you piece through the top of the tin, you nod once, “I’m sure it will. Pearson and the others will be pretty ecstatic, I’m sure.”

“Yeah... I’ve just been tryin’ to prove myself, you know?” Lenny starts, and you hand some of the pineapple pieces over to him, which he takes gratefully, “It feels like I’m just the kid tryin’ to run with the men all the time. I wanna be more than that.”

Smiling softly as you grab your own portion of the pineapple, you tell him, “You already are, Lenny.”

With his cheeks stuffed full of the sweet, yellow fruit, his disbelief is slightly muffled, “Really?”

“Yes, really,” you chuckle at his state, and Lenny swallows his food as you explain, “The gang loves you, and I know that you’ve played a hand into a lot of the things they’ve done since I’ve been here myself. And, Arthur is rather fond of you, I’ve noticed. He’s not usually one to hitch onto people,” you say as you pop a piece of pineapple into your mouth.

“You say that, but he’s hitched onto you.”

You almost choke, but you manage to pass the piece of fruit down without completely doing so as your face flushes.

“Lenny...” you say with a bit of watered-down protest.

“Please, you can go on and on about how things are _not like this_ or _it’s more complicated than that._ Earlier at the fire, it’s all you went on about. But I see more than that. I know better than that. Arthur, he cares about you, and a lot more than you either realize or like to think about.”

“Arthur doesn’t—”

Lenny chuckles, stealing another piece of pineapple, “Don’t start, Wolf. I told you, it’s not gonna convince me.”

You relent some, growing quiet as you both place yourselves on the end of the wagon, the opened can of pineapple now placed between you as you look towards the swampy waters of the Lannahechee River. A stork flies off from the brown waters, and you watch it leave absently as Lenny settles beside you.

“I don’t feel convinced,” you admit to him softly.

“I know you don’t,” Lenny tells you just as gently, “I can tell you don’t think about it. That you just kinda... dance around it. Like you dance around Arthur.”

Scoffing lightly, you mutter, “I don’t _dance_ around him.”

“Yes, you do. You both do,” Lenny is rather forward, his tone certain and honest, “You two have always been doin’ that. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, Wolf...”

“It’s not that I would... I would _reject_ that sort of thing... I don’t think of it as wrong, but rather... I think of it as impossible.”

“Impossible,” Lenny repeats, a bit disbelieving, “You’re gonna tell me that when it’s been happenin’ this entire time.”

Ducking your head, you intertwine your fingers roughly, “No it hasn’t—”

“Are you just sayin’ this to try and keep yourself from bein’ convinced?”

Sighing, you look at Lenny, “I’m not tellin’ myself anythin’.”

“You’re not tellin’ yourself the truth, is what you’re doin’,” Lenny shrugs, his lips drawing uptight as he looks out into the canopy of trees like they hold the answers, “Why is it such a bad thing, Wolf?”

Numbly, you blurt, “What is a bad thing?”

“To have someone _care_ about you?” Lenny looks back at you, eyes squinting, “To have someone _love_ you?”

“Arthur doesn’t love me—” you are quick to stand up, shaking your head as your face scrunches, “You’re kiddin’ yourself, Lenny. We ain’t like that. He ain’t like that...”

“You’re lyin’ to yourself,” Lenny is steadfast with your rebuttal, not even appearing phased as you pale, and your heart picks up speed, “Listen, I... I think I’ve been in love once. With Jenny... I know you didn’t really get to know her, and you weren’t in the gang for long before... before she...” Lenny grows quiet, and he lets out a breath as he stares towards the ground, “I miss her every day. And despite her bein’ gone every day since... I still love her every day just the same... And a part of me wonders if it would’ve been easier to never have said or done anythin’, to have saved myself from the pain of havin’ lost her... But you know what?” Lenny looks up to you, deadly serious, “I’m glad I did. Because I realize that if I had never gotten to tell her, to kiss her, to have the last of the time that I spent with her be somethin’ special and just for us, that I would be even worse off than I am now.”

You remain quiet, unsure of what to say as the sun begins to set overhead, falling further into the horizon along the river some feet away.

“Listen, Wolf... I’m not sure what you’re tellin’ yourself, or why you’re tellin’ yourself what you do. But if you live your life in fear of gettin' hurt, then you’re never gonna live. Sometimes the pain is inevitable, and there’s always risks of somethin‘ goin’ wrong or not workin’ out. But the worst pain you could ever inflict on yourself is truly losin’ what you denied yourself of, and never had to begin with.”

“I’m not... I’m not denyin’ anythin’,” you murmur.

“Then what are you doin’?”

“I— I don’t know,” you whisper, and your uncertainty is as evident ever, “I don’t know...”

“This life, Wolf... Hell, even life itself, it’s not certain,” Lenny sets a hand on your shoulder, reassuring and supportive, “I know better than some how somethin’ you love dearly can be taken in an instant, with no reason why or a way to take anythin’ back... And I think, with that sort of uncertainty with the life we live, the risks involved... It’s better to take chances than to take them for granted.”

You huff, almost disbelieving, “Who knew I was gonna be coached by a teenager?”

“Hey, I’m nineteen!” Lenny says, as scandalized as he is humored, “I’m not some infant runnin’ around with a gun, Wolf.”

“Still a child,” you murmur, ruffling his hair and having him bat your hand away with a playful snort, “I remember when you were just as tall as my hip—”

“Oh, save that for Jack,” Lenny laughs, standing up and tossing the empty can of pineapple to the ground, “In fact, you can probably tell him when we get back. I’m sure he’d love to hear it.”

You roll your eyes lightly, and as Lenny circles around to board onto the wagon by the driver’s end, you hesitate. Lenny senses and notices your lingering, and he looks back to you, face scrunching a bit in concern.

“Wolf?”

“Thank you,” you murmur, serious then, “For talkin’ to me.”

“’Course,” he says softly, nodding once, “I’ll talk to ya anytime you need it.”

You duck your head, smiling lightly, “You know, the same goes for you...”

“Oh, I know... I think you’re one of the few people I like talkin’ to... Micah and Bill aren’t great for conversation.”

Snorting, you shoot off with, “Don’t think they’re good for much of anythin’, honestly.”

The line has Lenny cackling as he boards the wagon, drawing up the reins of the horses at its front while you hop onto the passenger side.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” Lenny chuckles, and he whips the reins, driving the wagon forth, “Now, let’s get back to the horses, and then back to camp.”

“Sounds like a plan,” you comment, mind wandering as the wagon rolls forth.

**\---**

You and Lenny arrive back to camp with a warm welcome, especially from Pearson who seems chipper and in his own right, and of course, from Dutch.

Arthur and Charles seemed to have returned with a rather worn and bruised Trelawny, who has a tent set up near Kieran’s on the edge of camp where he licks at his wounds by his fire. They’re already with Dutch as you arrived at the start of nightfall.

“Ah, Ms. Broce! Lenny!” Dutch rejoices as you and Lenny lower yourself from the bench of the stolen Raider wagon, “I see your outing went well.”

“Sure did, Dutch,” Lenny sets a hand on the side of the wagon, “We gotta lot of new weapons in here, hooch too!”

“That a boy!” Dutch praises Lenny, coming over and wrapping the young man close to him by placing an arm along his shoulders, causing Lenny to smile as Dutch continues,

“My Lenny, you are such a gift! Always ready and such a good member of this gang! Why, if I had ten of you, I’d be in the West farmin’ already!”

Lenny rolls his eyes lightly, “Now you’re just fluffin’ my feathers, Dutch.”

“Ah, is just the truth, my boy,” Dutch then looks to you, “And you, Ms. Broce. I think it’s been a pleasant surprise, to see you evolve into a woman of stance since you arrived.”

You don’t respond to Dutch’s aimed praise as warmly as Lenny had.

“It was either that or laundry, and I got tired of washin’ Uncle’s clothes.”

“Hey!” the old man shouts, upset from where he leans back from the fire at the mention of him, “I’m not that deplorable!”

“Deplorable is your actual name, Uncle! Don’t kid yourself!” Tilly fires back from the table, where she and Mary-Beth play dominoes together, and Mary-Beth snickers as she makes her move.

“Alright, alright, enough doggin’ on each other,” Dutch motions for you and Lenny to follow, and you do.

You begin walking after the man as he leads you over to his tent to where Hosea and Arthur are already waiting. Of course, Micah is also present, sitting in a chair next to Dutch’s bed and cleaning under his nails with a hunting knife as he and Arthur eye each other coldly from across Dutch’s tent. The tension between the two men is palpable as you enter, taking your place by Arthur’s side as Dutch settles down onto his cot.

“We were just discussin’ some matters before you all arrived,” Dutch informs you and Lenny, “I’d like to go over everythin’. See where we’re at with all this.”

“Well, I went and talked to Mrs. Braithwaite earlier today, confronted her with the hooch that was hers,” Hosea tells you all, and he sighs, “She’s a ripe piece of work. So ripe, she’s almost rotten. But she surprised me a bit. Instead of buying back her moonshine for half cost, she told me to go into the Rhodes saloon tomorrow, give it away for free.”

Dutch scoffs, looking a bit humored by Hosea’s words, “For free?”

“She wants to piss off the Grays since they own the saloon,” Hosea hums, “Said it would be a beautiful new form of advertising.”

“A new American art,” Dutch clicks his tongue, “Well, looks like we can’t argue much with that... You takin’ anyone with you?”

“Thought I could take Wolf n’ Arthur with me,” Hosea then looks to Arthur and smirks, “Been a long time since I’ve made him play a part.”

Beside you, Arthur’s face grows grave, “No. No,” his voice is low with a warning, “I _ain’t_ playin’ dress up, Hosea. You know my feeling’s about that—”

“Oh, hush Cinderella. You’ll get your slipper and be quiet about it,” Hosea says without any fire.

Arthur rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, and you suppress a chuckle as Dutch looks to Charles in lieu of Arthur’s pouting.

“So, seein’ as Trelawny is back in one piece, albeit a bit worse for wear and rattled, it wouldn’t be wrong of me to assume things went fine with his rescue.”

Charles nods once in affirmation to Dutch’s statement, “We tracked down his bounty hunters easy enough. They were about a mile away from where Trelawny was staying.”

“And Trelawny,” Dutch pauses, voice growing quiet, “Did he talk?”

“You know him,” Arthur buts in, “He does nothin’ _but_ talk. But don’t worry, anyone he might’ve spilled out to ain’t gonna say anythin’ now.”

Knowing what those words mean, Dutch nods once in satisfaction as he leans back on his cot, taking an unlit cigar off his nightstand alongside a fresh match as he inquires further.

“And how about your errand for Ms. Penelope Braithwaite?”

“Well, it took longer than we’d like,” Arthur glances at you before looking back to his gang leader, “but we got it there just fine... Met Tavish Gray as well. Righteous piece of work that man is...”

Dutch’s brow pinches some, “He took well to you both?”

“Yes. Suppose he did, considerin’ he asked Wolf n’ I to steal this new Arabian Mrs. Braithwaite got from Saint Denis for his stable.”

Dutch’s eyes light up at Arthur’s words, and he sits forward, his match lit and burning in his fingers, “Is that so?”

“Yeah. But I don’t think it’s somethin’ we should mess with,” Arthur tells Dutch, “Feels too good to be true... ‘Sides, Mrs. Braithwaite will know who took her horse, and I think that’ll be too much to have go on while we’re here tryin’ to work these families.”

“I think it’d be perfect,” Micah speaks up for the first time since you and Lenny arrived and joined the conversation, “Think about it— they’d be so at each other’s throats, we could take what we wanted and just leave!”

“I don’t think it would be as simple as that...” Arthur murmurs.

Snorting, Micah sneers, “Of course you think that, cowpoke.”

“Better than you,” Arthur fires back, utterly hostile, “You don’t even think—”

“ _Enough,_ ” Dutch sternly growls, and both Arthur and Micah hush at his abrasion, “Personally, I don’t think it would be a problem... At least, if there’s somethin’ in it for us. Did he offer any sort of incentive? Especially from him as thanks for our courtesy?”

“He mentioned that her other horses should pull in about five thousand,” Arthur tells Dutch, but the doubt in his voice and expression is obvious, “Says there’s a fence right down the road from the camp that would take ‘em, but—”

“But what? That sounds like easy n’ quick money!” Dutch smirks.

Arthur sighs, “Nah, it’s not that... Just that it sounds too good to be true like I said... Five thousand for some horses? What are they made of? Gold?”

“Listen, we don’t have anythin’ to lose on this,” Dutch takes a pull from his cigar, blowing smoke past his smile as Arthur eyes him unhappily, “So why don’t we humor Mr. Tavish Gray and steal him an Arabian and some horses from ourselves, on behalf of Mrs. Braithwaite herself.”

You can see Hosea and Arthur are not entirely sold on the idea, but before they can protest any further, Dutch sighs, standing up from his cot.

“So, I guess the game plan for tomorrow is to steal some horses and give out some shine. Sounds simple enough, right?”

“I suppose,” Hosea murmurs, unconvinced.

“Well, it’s what we’ll do. And then once this robbery comes through, we should be well enough to move on from here soon, before things blow up like you two seem to be convinced they will,” Dutch laughs as he exits his tent, extending his arms as Pearson comes up from behind him, “It’s an opportunity for us! We can stay here until we collect what we need from these southern degenerates, and then we’ll finally be on our way west before you know it!”

“If you say so, Dutch,” Arthur mutters.

“Have faith, son,” Dutch nods once at Arthur, sighing as he hears Pearson clear his throat, “Alright. Get yourselves rested. We got a day for us tomorrow.”  
Dutch turns, greeting Pearson as the man begins to talk to him.

“I got somethin’ for you, Dutch! Somethin’ big!”

“Alright, alright,” Dutch motions towards his tent, seemingly tired as Pearson lumbers towards it, “Just make it quick...”

Arthur sighs as Dutch and Pearson disappear into their tent, and the rest leave you and Arthur by yourselves.

“So,” you breathe out, trying to ignore how Lenny sends you a knowing smile as he leaves, “I guess we do have a day to rest up for tomorrow.”

Arthur nods, not even noticing Lenny as he begins rubbing at his face. He then looks up haggardly at the stars, almost as though he wished he was out there with them.

“That we do, Wolf,” he mutters, longing and mournful, “That we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> Want to support me? You can here!  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qCIW84_vYYY&t=383s


	14. Clemens Point IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Karen’s loopy smile falls and quickly sobers as she takes in your state, and wordlessly, she comes over, running as you see her already begin to fear what you have to reveal to her.
> 
> D’or stops just as Karen does a foot away, her eyes refusing to look at the back of your horse as she looks at you, caked and soaked in blood as you shakily dismount D’or.
> 
> Others notice what is happening, and the roar of celebration comes to a quick halt as Karen’s eyes begin to water.
> 
> “That blood... That... That isn’t from someone I know, is it?” she asks, her voice hollow.
> 
> You aren’t sure what to say. What you _could_ say.
> 
> Instead, you stand there, soaked in blood and shaking, unable to answer Karen as she stares.
> 
> Arthur rides up from behind you, looking just as stricken as he looks at Karen.
> 
> “Karen, we... It just...” Arthur’s attempts to talk are the only words spoken in the entire camp as everyone comes close, gathering around to see what has happened, “Karen, I’m... I’m sorry...”
> 
> “S-Sorry?” she repeats, and the tremble in her voice is palpable as she then looks to the back of D’or, “Sorry for what?”
> 
> The second her heart breaks is obvious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. So.
> 
> I've hinted about this before, but this update... there's some pretty big occurrences here.
> 
> I don't want to spoil exactly what happens, but just understand that this update is heavy, and I fully recommend that **you use reader discretion** throughout this update. 
> 
> If you have any issues with what is depicted, please, feel free to exit from this fic, or cut over the scenes that cause you issues. Thanks.
> 
> Otherwise, I hope you guys prepare yourselves in what ways you can because this is gonna be a wild ride for you. :)
> 
> Enjoy!~

The lake water rolls onto the banks lining the edge of Clemens Point, the murky waters veiled with a sheen of fog that rolls over it in the early morning light. A disturbance in the water causes ripples to flow out, waving and lingering until they are lost to the mass of Flat Iron Lake, the silage soon forgotten in the calmness of the lake despite what goes on near the lakeshore.

“Wolf!” Jack grins at you from the side of D’or, your golden Trotter standing calmly amongst all the chaos that Jack and the morning have wrought so far, “Look what I did!”

You smile at Jack from where you wade in the lake water on the opposite side of your mare, your worn jeans rolled up to your calves as you trudge around D’or to see Jack’s handiwork.

Her light mane has been braided, rather meticulously and beautifully for a five-year-old boy’s ministrations, and you can’t help but let your lips break further in an impressed grin.

“Wow, Jack,” you praise the young boy, “I never knew you could braid!”

“Mama taught me a few months ago,” Jack explains, “I learned so I could make chains of wildflowers.”

You nod knowingly, “Like those crowns we made, back when we were in Valentine?” you ask.

“Yes!” Jack beams, “Mama taught me really well, didn’t she?”

“Yes, she did. D’or looks beautiful, Jack... I don’t think I’ve ever braided her hair.”

From the bank, Arthur chuckles from where he and Kieran work on Bedwyr.

“She does look great,” Arthur commends Jack, causing the young boy to puff his chest out proudly as Arthur admires his work, “Looks like you got that done in a stable!”

You nod, and D’or ducks her head, her now braided mane falling about her neck as she moves her front right hoof in the water.

“Alright, alright,” you tell her, patting her side and grabbing her lead, “I figured you had enough.”

D’or’s damp, golden coat shimmers in the sunlight, looking as great as ever now that she has had a wash. The same goes for Bedwyr, who has also cleaned up nicely under the close attention of Arthur and Kieran.

“Think you’re gonna ride him again today?” the former O’Driscoll asks, “I could saddle him up if you’d like.”

“We could try, yeah,” Arthur looks at Bedwyr, patting his massive stallion on the flank with pride, “Think you’re up to that, boy?”

Bedwyr ducks his head much like D’or had, rumbling lowly to signify his agreement.

“Alright, I’ll go get your saddle then, Arthur.”

Kieran moves away from Bedwyr, walking back over to the horses as you bring D’or up to Bedwyr’s side. The stallion looks to her, raising his lip once more in an attempt to impress the mare as she ignores him once more.

“Poor Bedwyr,” Arthur pets him, seeing how the stallion gets frustrated with D’or’s lack of interest, “Chasin’ after dreams, you are.”

“Well, ignorin’ him or not, they’re lookin’ pretty good, I’d say,” you tell Arthur as Jack comes back, his hands full of flowers, “They really needed this.”

“A clean horse is a happy horse,” Kieran says as he returns with Arthur’s saddle in hand, “There you go, Arthur.”

Taking his saddle back as Kieran begins to leave you all alone once more, Arthur says, “Thanks, Kieran.”

You smile softly as you feel a slight tug along the edge of your shirt. Looking down, you see Jack, his arms full of clumps of what looks like small daises as he grins up at you.

“Could I put these in D’or’s braids?” he asks, his poor pant dripping from where he had been playing in the water as you cleaned D’or, “I think she’d look so pretty!”

Laughing softly at Jack, you nod, grabbing him and lifting him up onto D’or’s back so he can slide the stems of the flowers into her braids.

“I think she’d look great with them, Jack. Thank you.”

Jack giggles, sitting on D’or’s back as he adds more into the braids he made of her pale, white mane, and you leave him to it as you go to the opposite side of Bedwyr from where Arthur stands. Between the stallion and your mare, you see Arthur across from Bedwyr as he begins to place the saddle over his back, and your eyes meet each other for a moment.

“You know,” Arthur murmurs, voice soft and hushed between you both, “you’re really good with him...”

“He’s the first kid I’ve ever been around,” you admit, blushing a little, “It’s... it’s nice.”

Arthur smiles at you warmly, and you have to avert your eyes as your face heats. Despite not looking at Arthur, you know the man watches you carefully as you help him place and fix his saddle onto Bedwyr. The stallion stands dutifully between you both, shifting only a little as his tack is fixed and Arthur puts the neck rope that Kieran had given him around Bedwyr’s neck.

As you step back, looking at your finished work, you hear Jack call from behind you.

“Aunt Wolf! Aunt Wolf, look!”

You turn, your lips cracking in a sincere smile as you see the handiwork that Jack has done. Now, in the nice braids, he had made of D’or’s mane, there are small flowers that are woven and placed into them. Your mare raises her head a little, almost proud of her new look as Jack lays against her neck, laughing and holding onto D’or.

“Isn’t she so pretty, Aunt Wolf?” Jack smiles at you, “She’s such a good horse!”

“She looks even prettier with what you’ve done, Jack,” you praise, and you grab the boy off of your horse to place back down onto the banks of the lake below.

Giddily, Jack looks at Arthur, who has been watching you both.

“Uncle Arthur, could I give Bedwyr a braid with flowers too?”

Humming, Arthur humors Jack, “Hm. Don’t see why not... Just one, though. Bedwyr may not like bein’ as patient as D’or.”

Jack nods once, determined as he walks over to Arthur. The outlaw chuckles at Jack’s spirit, grabbing the boy from under his arms to place him on the back of his stallion as you had done with D’or.

Bedwyr doesn’t seem bothered by this, and he looks at Arthur as Jack gathers a clump of his grown-out mane, taking the black strands and weaving them together. It doesn’t take Jack long, finishing the braid and placing the small, white daisies he’s collected throughout it. The contrast between Bedwyr’s mane and the petals is stark as Jack lets his finished work fall back into the mass of Bedwyr’s medium, curling hair, and he claps his hands together to celebrate its completion.

Arthur grins as he takes in the sight of Bedwyr’s braid, the length of it coming to rest by Bedwyr’s right ear as the stallion rumbles.

“Alrighty, Jack. Think he’s had enough,” Arthur grabs onto Jack and sets him down once more, and Jack runs around the front of Bedwyr to take in his work.

Jack looks ecstatic, glowing with his excitement and he laughs and points to Bedwyr’s altered mane.

“Yes, Jack. It looks great,” Arthur places his hand on his hip, smiling down at the boy who looks to you for additional praise.

“I think Bedwr looks amazin’,” you tell the boy, and he laughs, getting too hyper for his own good amidst your appraisal.

“I’m gonna tell momma!” he says excitedly, “I’m gonna—”

Jack stops dead in his tracks, his eyes locked on something in the trees. Your nerves shift, and you quickly grow concerned as Jack stills in a way you’ve never seen.

“Jack?” you ask.

Arthur also looks on edge, reaching down for his Colt and looking wary as his eyes glance to meet yours for a split second.

Then, without warning, Jack runs, darting in through the trees as you and Arthur run and shout after him.

Jack is quick on his feet, and you fear the worst for him as you lose sight of the boy.

“Jack!” you shout, your voice shrill to your own ears, “Stop!”

Arthur ends up by your side as you end up coming to a straight stop, your boots skidding a little in the dirt with your chest heaving as you see Jack kneeling on the ground in front of a gray and black body.

“It’s a dog!” Jack excitedly exclaims as you let out a harsh breath of relief, and Arthur sags at your side, “Look! I found a dog!”

The dog in question is a little older, and surprisingly in good shape. For being on its own, it doesn’t seem to be mangy or underweight, but it does look a little thin. Despite that though, it’s friendly. So friendly the dog is beginning to lick at Jack’s face, coming up to the boy perfectly in height.

“Looks like you got a friend there, Jack. I’m guessin’ it’s a Catahoula Car,” Arthur pulls his hat off his head, running a hand through his hair as you hear some rustling behind you, announcing the frantic arrival of some of the other gang members, “Guess that’s better than what it could’ve been...”

Abigail is the first to arrive with John right behind her, and she lets out a breath as you did as her boy comes into view. She immediately comes to his side, pushing away the dog and grabbing up her son as she shields him away from it and presses Jack against her chest.

“Jack! What on earth happened!?”

“I saw a dog, mama!” he begins to explain, pushing back against her chest to try and see the dog again, “I saw him through the trees and I wanted to see if he was okay!”

John crouches down beside Abigail and their son, shaking his son, “You ran off on Arthur n’ Wolf?”

Ducking his head, the boy answers timidly, “Well... yes.”

“Jack, you can’t just go runnin’ off like that! And you can’t go runnin’ up to strange animals, neither! They could be sick!” you hear her tell him with her fear as apparent as ever as she stands, holding tightly onto Jack’s hand, “Come on, let’s get you back to the tent—”

“But mom, can we keep the dog?”

Frowning sourly, Abigail immediately shoots down the concept, “No! Absolutely not! He might be someone’s, Jack!”

“He could be ours!” the five-year-old insists, “He _found_ us, mama! That means something!”

“Jack, I’m not arguin’ with you right now...” Abigail tries pulling Jack away, causing the boy to erupt into tears.

“No! No, mama! We have to keep him! He doesn’t have anywhere else to go!”

“Jack, listen to your mama!” John orders harshly, and Jack only cries harder at the rejection from both of his parents.

At this moment, Dutch approaches with Micah, taking in all of you standing around Jack and the dog, and the situation that it causes.

“Whoa whoa whoa, now,” Dutch raises his hands, stopping Abigail and Jack’s struggle as you all look to him, “What seems to be a fuss?”

Angered and upset, Jack shouts, “Mama won’t let me keep my dog!”

Quirking a brow, Dutch looks to Abigail, asking, “Is that so?”

“Yes! But it ain’t his dog— it ain’t anyone’s! You told us back in Horseshoe that we weren’t takin’ on any more strays,” Abigail says pointedly, “We ain’t keepin’ that dog, Jack.”

Dutch looks at Jack’s tearful eyes and chuckles, “Well, I ain’t never said a thing about dogs, did I?”

“Dutch,” John starts, frowning, “We ain’t got no business gettin' a dog.”

Dutch ignores them both, and he begins kneeling down in front of a tearful Jack and smiling, “Would you like it if we kept him?”

“Y-Y-Yes,” Jack stutters, wiping at one eye as he nods.

Dutch places a hand on Jack’s shoulder, “Then I guess he’s ours.”

As Jack’s face lights up, John and Abigail’s turn sour with their scowls.

“R-Really?”

“Yes really, Jack,” Dutch stands, looking at Jack’s parents with a strong amount of tension in the air, “He can stay. He can be a camp dog.”

John openly scoffs, shaking his head, “Since when we had one of them?”

“Why, I do believe Arthur used to have a dog,” looking to the other outlaw, Dutch asks, “And what was that mutt’s name again?”

Quietly, Arthur mutters, “Copper... His name was Copper.”

You blink, not having heard about Copper before this moment while Dutch turns to Abigail and John, smiling a bit as he laughs.

“I think it’ll be like old times sake... And ‘sides, this boy’s been growin’ up hard. Think a dog would do him good!”

Abigail clicks her tongue, obviously unhappy, “I think some other things would do him more good, like when he listens to his parents.”

“As he should,” Dutch agrees, but you can tell there’s a double meaning behind his words, “But, in this case, he can listen to Uncle Dutch. The dog can stay, even if it ain’t his.”

Jack pulls away from his mother then, going over to the dog and grabbing onto him while the dog wags his tail happily, none the wiser to the drama about his inclusion to the gang.

“Oh, thank you, Uncle Dutch!”

“You’re welcome, my boy,” Abigail and John seethe behind the man as he approaches their son once more, kneeling down onto his knee to talk to the young boy, “Say, I even got a name in mind...”

Eager and wide-eyed, Jack’s teary face lights up as he whispers, “You do?”

“Why yes I do,” Dutch chuckles, pausing as he leans in to murmur, “I was thinkin’ Cain. Like from the Bible.”

“Oh... Who’s Cain? What did he do?”

Dutch hums, “One of the sons of Adam and Eve, the older brother who came before... What he did wasn’t so... wasn’t so good. But he ran to live. To keep his freedom. And that’s a lot like what we’re doin‘ isn’t it?”

Quietly, Jack nods in agreement.

“Good. Cain it is then,” Dutch smiles at Jack, “I think it’s very fittin’ for him... Got a nice ring, don’t it?”

From the side, Micah butts into the conversation, “Sure does, Dutch!”

“Yes! It does, Uncle Dutch!” Jack agrees in tandem with the man.

Growing short, Abigail comes over, snatching Jack away from Dutch and hissing, “Named or not, he’s your dog...”

“Ah now, Abigail! That ain’t no way to act!”

Abigail ignores Dutch, pulling Jack away from them all as John sends Dutch a heated look.

“Really, Dutch? You gonna go off and pull somethin’ like that?” John says dubiously, “What’s the point of us tryin’ to raise the boy if you’re just gonna undermine us with it?”

“I wasn’t underminin’ nothin’, John,” Dutch plays everything off so innocently as he goes to stand, smiling and acting like this is all something to be brushed over, “Besides, it’s just a dog.”

“Ain’t nothin’ _just a dog_ with you,” John mutters, and he turns, following Abigail as she takes Jack to their tent.

At their departure, you breathe out heavily as Micah chuckles to himself as Cain follows after them.

“Ah, some people just don’t get what you do for them, Dutch.”

“No. No, they don’t,” Dutch agrees, turning then to look at you and Arthur, “Now, dramatics aside, aren’t you two supposed to be headin’ out today for some important work?”

“Well, Jack runnin’ off on us into the woods took precedence,” Arthur argues back, and Dutch sighs weakly.

“Jack or not, go to Hosea. He’s got the wagon full of shine we acquired from takin’ down Mrs. Braithwaite’s still almost a week back near the front of the camp. He’s been waitin’ on you two to ride out and begin sellin’ it in Rhodes.”

Arthur ducks his head, nodding down towards the ground, “’Course. We’ll be there shortly... Just gotta get our things together.”

“Good. And after you all are done with that, you’re gonna come back and meet with John. He’s gonna go with you and Javier to take that woman’s horses come nightfall when they ain’t expectin’ us.”

“Yeah yeah,” Arthur waves Dutch off lightly, walking past him as he grabs ahold of your arm, tugging you slightly away from both him and Micah, “We’ll get around to it.”

“Good luck,” Micah says eerily, and he chuckles, the sound ringing out through the trees as you walk outside of them and towards camp.

Arthur’s face is drawn up, and you can see that the man is irritated with the way of things as you take in the sight of Hosea across from the scout fire, about a yard out into the clearing adjacent to the camp. Arthur’s arm lets go as you begin to approach, and your curiosity gets the better of you.

“You alright?” you ask.

“Dutch had no place doin’ that back there,” Arthur mutters, and you can see the tension rolling off the man, “There’s one thing, tryin’ to raise Jack together as a family in this gang, and it’s somethin’ different altogether when he tried to take that away from John and Abigail.”

Nodding lightly, you mutter your agreement, “It wasn’t right, no.”

“Makes it seem like John and Abigail have no authority over Jack. Like the boy shouldn’t listen to them, especially if Dutch is just gonna go off n’ do somethin’ like that,” huffing, “It ain’t right, but... I don’t know... I’m just blowin’ air at this point now.”

You aren’t sure what to say to Arthur as you both reach the wagon.

Hosea takes notice of you both, smiling and looking lighter at your arrival from where he is seated on the bench of the wagon.

“Ah! Wolf, Arthur!” he greets, “I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

“Yeah. Dutch told us,” Arthur sighs, looking at the older man, “So what are we doin’, anyway?”

“Well, I thought I’d meet with Mrs. Braithwaite yesterday to announce that I had her beloved spirits, and I proposed that I could sell them back to her. As payment for the favor of... _dicoverin’_ and returnin’ her product, of course, but... she decided there was another plan for it,” Hosea turns, patting one of the massive jugs in the back heartily, “We’re to give these out in the saloon in Rhodes, the one owned and run by the Grays. For free, she told me.”

Arthur snorts, smirking a little as he tilts his head at Hosea, “Does she not care for turnin’ a profit?”

“Seems like all she cares for is turnin’ the Grays’ stomachs,” he grins then, “But, I suppose it just means better business for us.”

“Sure, I suppose.”

Looking at you both then, Hosea pats the bench, “Well, there’s no time like the present, they say. So come on, hop up here and get this thing movin’!”

Chuckling, Arthur complies with Hosea’s haste, “Sure thing, old man.”

You go around the other side of the wagon, taking the fair passenger side while Hosea claims the middle for himself. Arthur settles himself on the driver’s end, taking the reins of the drafts hooked to the front, and looking to Hosea.

“We all ready?”

“Yes. I have everythin’ we need here on the wagon. I figure we can go ahead and head on out.”

Confused, you ask, “We aren’t bringin’ our horses?”

“No no, my dear,” Hosea smiles at you as Arthur gets the wagon moving, the glass containing the countless gallons of shine behind you clattering with its movement as Hosea continues, “We won’t need them for right now. It would blow our cover, you see.”

Instantly suspicious, Arthur glances at Hosea with narrowed eyes, “Cover?”

“Oh, I have a whole little spiel planned for us. See, while these folks aren’t as bright as a lit candle, they aren’t too dumb to not question why three strangers they ain’t seen before have come into their bar offerin’ free shine of questionable origin.”

Groaning, Arthur shakes his head, “I shoulda known you were plannin’ on doin’ this.”

“It’s a necessity, Arthur!” Hosea says with a humorous façade of innocence, “Why, if we didn’t have our roles, then we would be run out of the place as soon as we arrived!”

Growing concerned yourself, you look at the older man, “What do you mean by roles?”

“He means that he’s made parts for us to play, Wolf,” Arthur mutters grumpily, “Shoulda known he would’ve jumped to the chance of playin’ dress up...”

“Now now there, Arthur. I’ve devised the perfect part for you!” Hosea chuckles excitedly, taking a wide and low brimmed hat from behind him, and sticking it onto Arthur’s head as the outlaw at his side makes a loud noise of complaint, “You are Fenton, my younger, mute brother,” Hosea then plays up his accent, making it deeper and more southern, “Oh, and poor mama, she always worried for you. That was, till ya killed her!”

Irritated, the man glares from under the brim of his new hat, “Of course you made me mute—”

“Ah ah, Fenton! Remember, you can’t talk!” Hosea corrects Arthur, causing the man to press his lips together and huff as Hosea then looks at you, “Isn’t it perfect? His scowl and everythin’ just makes it!”

Arthur glances at you, and you smile softly at him.

“The hat is cute.”

“See, Arthur! She agrees with me!” Hosea pats your shoulder playfully while Arthur lightly rolls his eyes, “Now, Wolf, I do have a part planned for you as well.”

You feel your own stomach drop, “Oh... Is that so?”

“Yes. Now, it isn’t as intricate or quiet as Arthur’s. You are my assistant, Lillian,” Hosea explains, “As for me, I’m an entrepreneur lookin’ to make his own official distillery here in the east. And this shine we’re handin’ out today, it’s what we like to call _advertising._ ”

“Advertisin’?” Arthur repeats, uncertain as he drives the wagon towards roads, “The hell is that?”

“It’s a brilliant way to convince people to buy whatever it is you’re sellin’. This shine here is our advertisin’,” Hosea explains, “We pretend like this shine of ours is on the house so that they can take an interest in my future distillery, and tada! It’s off without a hitch!”

Glancing to the back of the wagon, you ask, “Won’t they think it’s a little odd we are givin’ away so much, though? This is probably a few dozen gallons here...”

“They won’t notice because they’ll be too drunk and too eager to really think about those things,” Hosea chuckles, “We only have to lie enough to pass without raisin’ suspicion, not make sense with these people.”

You press your lips together, humming to yourself, “Well... It just feels like a lot to give away... Who was she even makin’ this for, anyway? An army?”

“Who cares about her intended market now, Wolf? It’s just ours to toy around with, and this is quite the place to do it!” Hosea then gestures to Rhodes, and more specifically, to the two-story saloon at its end as he switches over to his previous accent, “Just take us there, Fenton! We can start givin’ out samples soon!”

At the sound of Hosea’s voice, a few townspeople look over to your wagon, and you sit on the bench self-consciously as Hosea smirks, playing up their arrival.

“Traveled so long we did! Lord, I didn’t think we’d be able to keep the shine all the way here!”

A few murmurs break out as Arthur pulls up to the saloon, and hops down wordlessly from the driver’s seat of the wagon.

“Now, Fenton,” Hosea begins, “Lillian and I are gonna go into the bar, get these men some real drinks!”

You can see Arthur’s irritation with the whole thing, but he doesn’t say a word. Instead, he goes to the back of the wagon, grabbing out the first box filled with glass mason jars of shine as Hosea pulls you towards the bar.

“Come on, Wolf,” he whispers to you as you come upon the door to the saloon, “Let’s make this a night for them to remember...”

Pulling away from you, Hosea bursts through the saloon doors, getting attention from everyone in the saloon, including its workers.

“Good mornin’, fellers!” Hosea beams, “Have I got somethin’ for ya!”

 

**\---**

“Oh, you’re such a good man, F-Fenton,” one of the patrons of the bar slurs, offering up his glass for Arthur to fill yet again at the bar, “It’s... It’s not your fault. For what happened to your mother or you... Even though... Even though you killed your ma.”

Arthur predictably says nothing, as the two of you work side by side, filling shot after shot of shine as the empty glass appears on the bar before you.

Even the workers are now drunk, falling over each other and laughing as the saloon has turned into a lively, drunken mess. A man plays the piano manically in the corner, the sound of it almost muffled by the roar of everyone in the bar.

“Oh, Lillian,” one of the others states, “You... You’re just so b-beautiful.”

His slurred compliment earns him a tight smile from you as you pour him another shot, not daring to reply to him.

“You know, my wife... She looks hideous. I mean, the back end of a cow, is what we’re talkin’,” he sways a bit as he smiles horribly at you, “But you... I— I could stare at you for hours.”

“You’ll have to leave sometime,” you tell him with a sharp, dangerous smile that you’re sure you’ve never used before.

“Oh, but you’ll l-leave with me, right?” he asks, beginning to plead, “I’ll give you anythin’ you want... money, gold,” he smirks, his black teeth causing your skin to crawl, “A good time.”

You can see how tense Arthur is, and the restraint the man is having to give at forcing himself not to say anything as this creep tries to advance on you.

“I think I’m better off lookin’ elsewhere,” you hiss.

Growing angry, the man glares at you, “Why, am I not good enough? What? Is this mute bastard at your side even makin’ you happy? What a fuckin’ crock of shit!” he stands, grabbing at your arm and trying to pull you over the counter when something else happens.

You are moved out of the way in a second, pulled back by Arthur who goes for the man.

He doesn’t hesitate, grabbing the drunkard by his dirty lapels and slamming his head down onto the counter, effectively knocking the man out cold as the others in the bar watch.  
Everything grows silent. The piano stops playing. People stop talking. And you, you feel your heart rush into your chest.

Arthur’s glare is venomous on the man’s form, and Hosea comes over, and you can see his mind already working on how to play this off.

“Oh, see, this is just what happened to mama, isn’t it, Fenton! Choked her out straight, he did! All because she dared yell at him!” Hosea laughs, grabbing the shot you had filled for the man and raising it, “To Fenton!”

Too drunk to do much else, the whole bar erupts once more, cheering, “To Fenton!”

As their shout ceases, the bar falls back into its previous state, and Hosea curses, looking at Arthur and you both as he smiles at the others at the bar.  
“We’re gonna take a bit of a break!” Hosea tells them, and at their sad and mournful noises, Hosea grabs the last two jars of shine that were behind the counter to place them up for grabs, “Go ahead, pour one for yaself!”

The men cheer, almost fighting over the shine as Hosea ushers you both out of the saloon via the back door.

Now outside, you take a deep breath, taking in the afternoon light and sighing as you look at Hosea haggardly, “Was all of this really necessary?”

“Was that back there necessary?” Hosea looks at Arthur, frowning, “What got into you? I thought we were supposed to be workin’ a job, not ruinin’ it” he hisses under his breath.  
Just as quietly, Arthur fires back, “Oh, so what, I’m supposed to just let some drunk man grab onto her and assault her?” Arthur growls, “You shoulda heard the filth comin’ out of that man, Hosea! And all I could do was listen to him!”

At that, Hosea backs down a little, frowning as he looks to you, “Is that so?”

“Y-Yeah,” you breathe, your heart still racing, “Arthur, he... he stopped him when he got to be too much.”

“You okay, though?” Arthur asks, looking at you with a pinched expression, “I only saw him grab your wrist, but... I just wanna make sure.”

Your cheeks only heat further as you whisper, “I’m fine... Shaken up, but fine...”

Sighing, Hosea sits down onto the stairs by the back door, running a hand over his face as his sweaty skin glistens in the dying orange rays of the sunset, “Okay... Okay... I’ll admit, this... This didn’t exactly go as smoothly nor did it go as quickly as I’d hoped...”

“It’s a bit much,” Arthur tells him, “I think we could leave it be, like this... Everyone’s drunk, there’s no more shine... Mrs. Braithwaite got exactly what she wanted.”

As Arthur says that, the door to the saloon bursts open, and Hosea jumps to his feet as the noise inside sputters to silence once more.

“Where are those bastards!” a man shouts, and you can hear people and things getting shoved aside from inside the saloon, “The ones handin’ out our shine, where are they!”  
Your blood runs cold, your breath hitching as you hear one of the patrons stutter from inside.

“T-They went out there—”

“Out _where,_ you damn idiot!” the man from before shouts, and you can hear glass breaking as Hosea begins to motion at you both to go towards the wagon, “I should kill you! I should kill all of you! This shine was meant for the Lemoyne Raiders!”

“S-Sorry, I’m so sorry!” the poor drunkard bellows as Arthur hops onto the driver’s seat of the wagon, forcing the drafts to begin turning as the patron stutters, “T-They just g-g-gave it to us! We had no idea!”

“She told us he’d be here! Older man, white hair, a god damn Yankee!” there’s another crash, “I don’t fuckin’ see him, so where did he go!?”

Hosea’s face grows dark, hissing low enough for only you both to hear him, “She sold me out...”

Hiccupping, the patron answers, “Out of the back d-d-door! Over there! Another man and a woman are with him! Please don’t hurt me! I have a family!”

“You’re lucky bullets are worth more than your life!”

Cursing, you hear the patron fall to the floor as the backdoor bursts open, and Arthur whips the drafts as they are angled straight out towards the road.

“There they are!” you hear the Raider shout, “Get ‘em!”

All three of you duck as the first shots ring out, and you look to Hosea.

“Do you have any guns!?”

“Yes, right here! I did the honors of loadin’ them before we left!” Hosea grabs onto one of the rifles you had taken from the Raiders hideout with Lenny yesterday, pulling out a second for himself as Arthur drives, “Now kill ‘em before they kill us!”

Without waiting, you pivot, turning to your side so that you can begin firing. The rifle is a lot slower than your carbine, but the shot packs a hell of a lot more punch as you hit your first target, a man jumping onto the back of his Morgan while the others try to mount up to begin their pursuit.

“God, that damned woman!” Hosea shouts, firing off and killing one of the Raider pursuing you and having him drop dead directly after, “I told Dutch not to trust her, and look what it got us!”

“Guess we know who her shine was intended for now, too!” Arthur yells, and he pulls his Colt from his holster as one of the Raiders rides up close, looking away from the road for a split second to shoot the man down before refocusing on driving the wagon.

“There’s only a few of them!” you tell Arthur and Hosea, “We can easily take care of them and get back to camp!”

“What if she ratted us out to someone else!?” Arthur asks, “And then what would we be dealin’ with!?”

“If she wanted us to be attacked by more than the Raiders, then they would’ve shown up in their stead!” Hosea points out as you both fire and drop two of the remaining three men, “She couldn’t go to the law, neither, since they’re all Grays!”

“And a good lot _that_ is doin’ us!” Arthur uses his Colt to kill the last Raider, turning and shoving his pistol back into his holster as he slows the horses down just a little, the town left scrambling in their wake as you try to head back to Clemens Point, “We warned him that all of this was bad business, and now look at us!”

“He’ll want to steal her horses more than ever now,” Hosea mutters, letting out a breath as the adrenaline begins to abate with the Raiders dead and now left behind you three.  
Arthur scoffs, turning the drafts and driving the wagon away from Rhodes, “You’d think this would be a sign that we should stop... Mrs. Braithwaite had no intention of ever lettin’ us get away with takin’ her shine. How do you think she’d react to us takin’ her horses?”

“I guess we’ll have to find out,” Hosea sighs, obviously unhappy, “You know Dutch is only gonna take this personally. And when he takes things personally, his vendettas never go unsettled.”

“Seems like he’s takin’ a lot of things personally these days,” Arthur mutters.

Sighing, Hosea agrees with Arthur’s words, “That he does... Frankly, he’s growin’ more... well, I’m not sure what it is that he’s growin’ into... He just seems disillusioned with our situation, like one more good score is goin’ to set us right and on our merry way.”

“He said that about Blackwater,” Arthur grits out, “And look how that set us off...”

“We lost so much... All of the money you stashed in Blackwater, a lot of our things... People, even,” Hosea looks grim as he adds, “If Dutch isn’t careful, he’s gonna lose the rest of us.”

Arthur slows the drafts a little, and you hear him let out a sharp breath, “I... I don’t think he’s goin’ to be, Dutch... I’m really startin’ to think he’s... well, he’s doin’ somethin’ else now.”

“You know,” Hosea starts, solemn, “We used to rob for good... Do you remember our first bank robbery? Back in 1887? Lord... twelve years ago now?”

Arthur hums, smiling just a little at the memory, “That I do... I was about, what... twenty-two or so?”

“Yes... I feel like we were a lot younger then... A lot different,” Hosea murmurs, “I remember we stole a few thousand, and what did we do with most of it, Arthur?”

“We gave it away,” the man murmurs, and your mouth slightly parts at his answer.

“We took what we needed, what we _legitimately_ needed, and we gave the rest away. To orphans no less. Orphans who didn’t have anythin’ but a desire for a better life... I remember what we did and I remember I felt like we were some, southern hick equivalent to Robin Hood... But now... I feel like we’ve turned into the king we used to vow on robbin’.”

Arthur sighs heavily, a sad and defeated noise, “I know what you mean, Hosea... I feel it too, sometimes... Now more than ever.”

As Arthur turns the wagon towards camp, the sight of the trail leading into it coming into view, Hosea responds, “I think Micah is only worsening this change in Dutch... Like he’s encouragin’ it. Fosterin’ it. I can already see how he’s gettin' to Dutch and only allowin’ this rot of greed to continue swallowin’ him whole.”

“Things aren’t lookin’ good, no... And unless we get Micah away from Dutch, or get his head back on straight... I don’t think things will head well for any of us,” Arthur murmurs as he guides the wagon down the rail leading into Clemens Point, “But... I can still see Dutch in there sometimes... The old Dutch, I mean... I just... I don’t wanna lose hope that he’s gone for good.”

“Neither do I, son,” Hosea sets a gentle hand on Arthur’s shoulder, “But there are times in life when even the person you’ve cared about the most, the person who swore they would never change for the worse, end up lookin’ more like a silhouette of who they used to be.”

The expression that overtakes Arthur’s face is not a kind one as the wagon arrives back at Clemens Point, and you see Dutch waiting for your return by the scout fire.  
Smiling, he stands, tossing the last bit of his spent cigar into the flames, leaving behind Javier, Bill, and Micah at the fire as he comes up to meet you a few feet away from his previous company. The men look on, watching you three as Arthur slows the wagon to a halt, and Dutch smiles at you all, his white teeth glinting in the afternoon light as it dies slowly over the lake.

As you and Arthur get off of the wagon, Dutch greets you.

“So, I have a feelin’ that things went well in Rhodes, considerin’ you’re back in one piece?”

“Back in one piece, sure, but havin’ that go well? Not so much,” Hosea grunts as he attempts to get down, and Dutch’s previous sense of jovial mischief is squashed like a roach that was noticed on a wall, “Mrs. Braithwaite... She ratted me out, Dutch. She sent some Lemoyne Raiders after us, the ones who she was gonna sell the shine to in the first place. Told ‘em what I looked like n’ everythin’.”

“That conniving. . .” Dutch’s words die off to form a nasty snarl in his throat, and the man’s eyes pinch and darken dangerously as he almost froths at the mouth, “She dared to do that to you— to _us!?_ Who does she think she is!?”

A few of the gang members overhear Dutch’s shouting, and they watch on with paling faces.

“She doesn’t have to think anythin’, Dutch! I told you that we shouldn’t have tried crossin’ her! She may be an old hag but she certainly has played the game long enough to know some two-timers when she sees them!” Hosea argues back, “We should just drop it here, leave them alone and just do this bank robbery tomorrow—”

“No. No!” Dutch roars, “We do not let the _likes_ of her try n’ play us like that, Hosea! We are not rats who scurry off into the dark whenever someone tries to get rid of us!”

“We aren’t rats, Dutch, but we sure are outlaws! Outlaws who are runnin’ off from Pinkertons and bounty hunters and God knows what else!” Hosea huffs, “Can’t you see that this is only gonna end with more problems than anythin’ good?”

Dutch laughs, bitter and enraged, “Do you think this is about gettin' anythin’ from her now, Hosea?”

Hosea remains silent, and he watches Dutch closely as the man pounds his hand on his chest, like some sort of battle cry.

“Do we look like we are gonna stand for takin’ that woman’s offense, Hosea? After all we’ve gone through, all we’ve lost— are we gonna allow that _whore_ of a woman to try and sabotage us?” Dutch leans in, hissing at the older man, “What if she rats us out to the Pinkertons, hm? What if she chooses to do more than send Raiders after their shine?”

“Shouldn’t that be a motivation to _stop_ and to leave them alone, then?” Hosea fires back, “I don’t give a damn about wounded egos, Dutch. I care about makin’ it outta this—”

“We are gonna make it out, Hosea! Can’t you see that?” Dutch’s face draws up, looking hurt at Hosea’s doubt in him and their intentions as a gang, as individuals, “Can’t you just have a little faith in me?”

Hosea shakes his head, stepping back and looking away from Dutch like he can’t manage to do so as he mutters, “It’s not about faith, Dutch... It’s... It’s different now,” Hosea turns, his scowl the deepest you’ve ever seen, “This ain’t like before. This ain’t just somethin’ we can keep doin’ and runnin’ off from... Our actions, they’re catchin’ up to us. And fast. And I don’t think... I’m worried that this time they’re gonna get us if we truly don’t start tryin’ to disappear.”

Dutch shakes his head, seemingly brushing off Hosea’s words as he offers him a hopeful smile, “We aren’t disappearin’, Hosea... We aren’t fadin’ into nothin’ as those fools want us to... We’re gonna make it. And we’re gonna do it our way.”

Hosea, unconvinced, meets Dutch’s gaze with a subtle frown, “Our way doesn’t work anymore, Dutch... I don’t think it ever did.”

Dutch’s smile falls, and you can see the hollowness its absence leaves behind. Dutch nods once, ducking his head as he steps away from Hosea, resigned to the reality that he cannot change the mind of the one person who always seemed to agree with him.

A bit unsettled, Dutch looks at you and Arthur, his voice held in an odd state of calm, almost as though the man were a ghost, or if he were reading off a message.

“Find John. He’s by the other edge of the camp, plottin’ this horse theft from the Braithwaites,” Dutch’s voice does lower a little then, his eyes singing like glowing embers, “We’re gonna hit them back. Make them regret ever tryin’ to mess with us.”

Hosea lets out a small breath, but his argument with Dutch seems to have ceased as Dutch walks straight back to his tent, passing by anyone who looks on worriedly or with questions without even acknowledging them. As he enters his tent, being greeted only by a furious Molly, you feel your throat tighten just a little as Javier approaches.

“Seems like things went a little south, ey?” he asks.

“They didn’t go south, Javier. They went straight to hell,” Hosea bites, and he walks off, glowering and looking just as upset as he heads towards Pearson’s wagon.

Javier whistles lowly as Hosea stalks off, and he looks back to you two.

“So... I see that also went well.”

“They’ve fought before... I'm sure it’ll be fine,” Arthur says, trying to play off the situation.

But as you eye him, you can see how the man looks after Hosea, his eyes narrowing softly on Hosea’s retreating form as the corners of his mouth drop with a slight frown as Javier begins to pull you both in a similar direction.

You feel bad for the man, seeing the two men who had raised him fighting in a way you’re sure has never happened before... But you’re not sure what to do, or what even to say.  
Especially as Javier begins talking.

“I think that once Hosea stops worryin’ as he is, we’ll do fine,” Javier smiles hopefully at Arthur, “Dutch hasn’t failed us before. He got us through Blackwater all the way up to here. I think he’ll keep settin’ us right.”

You can see disagreement bubbling up in Arthur, but he squashes it down, and instead vies for a change in the conversation as he spots John over by one of the large oak trees along the edge of camp.

“Well, them fightin’ or not, we got some horse rustlin’ to take care of.”

“You’re right, my brother,” Javier smirks, “It’s been a minute since we’ve got to steal somethin’ nice, hasn’t it?”

Muttering, Arthur scratches at his chin as you watch him closely, “I suppose...”

Looking to you, Javier then asks, “What about you, Lobo? When’s the last time you stole somethin’ nice?”

Blinking, you see Arthur also look to you, and you cough, glancing away from both men as you approach Marston, “I guess I ain’t really stole much worth notin’... Nothin’ like a horse, anyway... I... I don’t really steal.”

Chuckling, Javier nods knowingly as you stop in front of John, “Ah, I should’ve expected as much. You’re a bit too pure for what we do.”

“Pure or not, I gotta make sure we’re on the same page,” you hear John speak up as the three of you confront him, “If this Braithwaite woman has already been suspicious of backlash or us messin’ with her for a while now, so we gotta make sure we sneak in and take care of this as clean and as quickly as possible.”

“Listen, I’m fine with just nabbin’ that black Arabian that Tavish wants us to steal for him,” Arthur tells the other man then, “I don’t exactly want to go through the trouble stealin’ a few horses when I’ve seen the hell we got for the shine alone.”

John rolls his eyes lightly, “We ain’t got much of a choice. Dutch wants us to take all of the horses, and I’m sure that he wants that more for gettin' even then he does gettin’ the five grand he was quoted by you.”

Javier’s eyes boggle a little at the number, “Five thousand? Really, Arthur? You sure it’s just horses we’re stealing?”

“I didn’t quote ‘em, Tavish did,” Arthur says with a bit of offense, “Personally, I think he’s full of shit, just like Mrs. Braithwaite. We probably are better off just tryin’ to do this bank robbery in Valentine tomorrow and call it quits at that.”

“Arthur, we can’t back out on this, even if we want to. Dutch won’t let us.”

“Just like Dutch let Cain stay this mornin’?” Arthur points out.

John looks rather pissed at Arthur’s comment, and he grits out, “We’re not talkin’ about that right now.”

“John, I’m just tryna say that I don’t think this is a good idea...”

“You don’t even know what an idea is—”

“Yeah well, last time you had an idea, you ran off for a year—”

“Boys, enough arguin’,” Javier steps between them both, ending the impending fight that was starting between them, “Now isn’t the time...”

You go over to Arthur, pulling him back a little as you murmur, “Come on, Arthur. We gotta focus.”

The outlaw looks at you, taking a deep breath as he squares his shoulders some and relents on his previous upset.

“You’ve been to their manor before,” John tells him, “You know where the stables are, right?”

“Across from the docks,” Arthur explains, “Wolf and I put a small boat in the trees at the end of the property, where it meets up with lake n’ river. We could all take that, sneak in from the dock, and get to the stables there.”

John nods, still a bit red and riled up from his near-argument with Arthur, “Alright... That’ll work... You and Wolf will lead on the ride there. Javier and I will follow.”

“And once we get there?” Arthur asks.

“We’ll just have to wing it like we always do,” John sighs, and he looks towards the horses, “Now come on. We got some horses to take a look at.”

 

**\--**

The tip of the boat touches the dock, making a slight, muffled noise as Javier uses a small length of rope to tether it to one of the posts.

John is the first to clamber off, his narrow eyes set on the stable across the way, lit up by a singular oil lantern attached to the hip of the stable hand that’s inside. As he sweeps, unaware of the posse that gathers at the dock with the intent on making his evening into a rather “interesting” one, you watch him carefully as you are the last to exit the boat.  
Arthur offers a hand to you, pulling you up to the boards of the dock as you offer him a quiet whisper of thanks as John takes point.

There’s another man, one of the Braithwaite plantation workers that you see, sitting on one of the barrels out in front of the dock building. He’s got a book, opened up about midway through as he licks his thumb to turn the page. As you all huddle behind the wall forming the side of the dock house, John has his head peeking around the corner watching him, and he frowns as he pulls back to whisper to the rest of the group.

“We need to distract him to even be able to get to the stable, but without givin’ ourselves away,” John informs you, “Any ideas on how to do that?”

Arthur chimes in, “Maybe we could lure him. Throw a rock or somethin’ across the way. Make him look in the opposite direction.”

John nods in agreement, taking Arthur’s idea and running with it.

“Okay, do that. That way we can sneak across, knock out the man inside the stable, and then we can take off with the horses and towards were we left ours at the end of the property.”

All of you nod, and Javier picks a piece of wood from the crumbling dock up and tosses it once in his hand to catch it.

“Let’s test my throw, ey?”

Javier steps a little past the wall of the dock building you were hiding behind and making his arm go back to gain momentum. Then, with a little flick of his wrist, he leans forward, tossing the small bit of word a couple of yards across from you all, and having it land in one of the trees in the opposite direction.

Hearing the sound of the wood falling and clattering through the leaves and branches, the Braithwaite worker shuts his book, standing abruptly as he leaves it on the barrel and raises his rifle. He takes a few cautious steps forward, grabbing a lantern that rests at the end of the dock house’s porch to investigate the commotion.

“Who’s there?” he calls out, and as he proceeds to walk in that direction, Javier motions for you all to cross the road and get to the stable.

Your heart pounds as you sneak across the dirt road cutting through the plantation, with you and the others managing to do so without gaining any attention as you come to huddle out by the front of the stable.

From your position to the right of the open barn door, you can see the black Arabian in its pen, and you nudge Arthur, who is right by the opening of the door, as you point to it.

“There it is,” you whisper so quietly that you almost can’t hear yourself.

Arthur nods, and he leans in a little, taking stock of the stable hand whose back is facing you as he sweeps up hay and other debris while he whistles. You can see an array of emotions flutter over Arthur’s face before he steels himself, looking at the stable hand with intention as he begins sneaking up behind him.

And then, like a snake shielded by tall grass right at your feet, he strikes.

His hand slides over the stable hand’s mouth, his yelps of surprise caught by Arthur’s palm and muffled to where only the sound of his broomstick clattering against the ground can be heard.

Arthur muffles him till he goes limp, unconscious but still breathing as you and the others cautiously enter the stable. Arthur, meanwhile, takes the lantern off of the unconscious man below and lifts it to illuminate the stables.

“Alright, what do we have here?” Javier asks.

You go to the black Arabian, eyeing the small, nimble horse carefully. It’s shifty already, eyeing you and the other men widely as his black coat shifts in the light. You raise your hands slowly, cooing at the horse as you approach it, stopping at the gate as the horse backs up in its stall.

“God. Arabians,” Javier mutters, “They’re too flighty, sometimes.”

The man goes to the middle stall where a golden Overo American Paint waits, ears flicked back as it looks to him.

John, meanwhile, approaches the third stall, finding a dapple black Thoroughbred inside and humming.

“Damn, these are some nice horses.”

“Nice or not, we gotta get ’em outta here, and fast,” Arthur comes up to you, eyeing the Arabian as it begins to spook, “It’s okay, boy, we ain’t gonna hurt you.”

The lithe colt looks at you both warily as Arthur pulls back the door to his pen, and he begins to shift on his hooves.

“It’s alright,” Arthur murmurs to him, “Come on, easy now...”

The Arabian calms a fraction, but truly, he doesn’t start to ease until Arthur comes up to his side, patting him a few times and earning just enough trust for the horse not to immediately kick him for his efforts.

“Okay, enough bondin’ with the damn thing,” John says, voice low, and you see that he and Javier are already on the horses, “Get on him and let’s get outta here!”

Arthur sighs, but he manages to get onto the back of the Arabian. Thankfully, while the horse was not expecting Arthur to mount him, especially without a saddle and having nothing more than a lead on him like the other horses, the Arabian takes to Arthur well, adjusting himself to the added weight as Arthur looks to you.

“Come on,” he holds a hand out to you.

Using Arthur’s help once more, you get onto the back of the Arabian.

“Alright, everyone. Masks on. We don’t want them recognizing us if we gotta deal with ‘em again, okay?”

Going to your satchel as Arthur does, you pull the black neckerchief that Arthur had given you from it, and you place it over your face as Arthur gets his bandana placed over the bottom half of his face.

Looking over, you see Javier in his red handkerchief, and John in his black rag as Arthur nudges the Arabian forth, hooking the lantern onto one of the posts and snuffing its flames.

“Alright, let’s ride out... Quiet n’ slow, first. We’ll go through the fields, where the plants’ll give us cover. Then, once we’re close enough, we book it and whistles for our own horses to follow.”

John nods once while Javier looks to Arthur, “These horse rustlers, where are they?”

“Tavish said they were out near Rhodes. I think right at the shore of the lake, by camp... We’ll just have to find ‘em if not.”

Javier nods once in confirmation, “Okay, sounds good... Now let’s ride.”

Arthur is the first to exit the stable, and you hold onto him and your breath as the Arabian’s ears flick and his eyes search the darkness. The nearly full moon overhead offers some light, bathing the night in a very opaque shade of navy that allows you to make out the field of corn right beside the stables.

Javier is behind you while John takes the back as you go around the white fence surrounding the front of the stable, and you look into the fields, trying to spot any Braithwaite men doing their nightly rounds through the crops.

Arthur, meanwhile, has a tight grip on the Arabian’s reins, looking around and trying to spot any of the Braithwaite men as he rides point. You feel the tension in his body as you hold on, worrying that any moment could shift in a rather unpleasant way as you ride on quietly through the dark.

You close in on the fields, and Arthur pats the Arabian’s neck lightly, silently praising the colt as he carries you through the tall stalks with the other men in tow.

About midway through the plot of crops, you hear a commotion from the direction you had just come in.

“Hey! Tommy! Tommy’s out cold!” your breath hitches in your throat as another voice shouts, “Shit! S-Someone stole the horses!”

A few guards you can see through the corn stalks immediately run over, high on alert as you creep through unseen. In front of you, Arthur sucks in a sharp breath as you come to the edge of the field, and the rest is barren for the hopper that has been built at the end of the property.

“We’re gonna have to run for it,” he tells John and Javier as they come up to his sides, “Once we get past this, we gotta run, and we can’t stop till we’re clear, got it?”

“Guess we can really see how good these horses are, eh?” Javier jokes.

“Come on, we can’t hesitate for long, alright?” John spurs the Thoroughbred underneath him, “We gotta go!”

His horse rears a little, kicking up the tilled soil underneath its hooves as it begins to gallop, and Arthur curses as he and Javier are forced into action.

“There! At the edge of the cornfield!”

“Goddammit, you idiot!” Arthur shouts at John as several of the Braithwaite men immediately open fire at you and the others, “There was no need for that!”

“Now at the time, English!” John shouts back, and you grip tightly onto Arthur as the Arabian practically flies instead of runs, “We gotta run!”

The Arabian is the first to pull forward, naturally faster and lighter than the other horses, and Arthur shoots John a menacing look before passing by him.

You make it to the end of the Braithwaite property not long thereafter, and you all whistle for your horses as you try to find the main road. There isn’t time to mount onto them, as you hear a few men on horses give chase— they will just have to follow.

“Shit!” Javier curses as a bullet flies past his head, narrowly missing, “Come on, we gotta shake these bastards!”

Thankfully you have brought your carbine, and you pivot, taking it off of your shoulders as you aim behind you and the others.

“Keep goin’!” you shout, readying your gun to aim at the first of three riders, “I got this!”

 

**\---**

The horses underneath you all breathe heavily as they are slowed to a stop, your own horses dutifully halting as you let everyone get a breath of air.

You rode out past Rhodes, going almost to camp before slowing down and getting yourselves settled.

“After all of that,” John comments, removing the rag that obscures his face then, brows and eyes pinched as he sweats, “these horses better be worth a hidden family fortune in gold.”

You and Arthur snicker as you dismount the Arabian, and Javier does the same.

“So, this horse fence is just right up here?” he asks.

“Yeah. Least per Tavish they are,” Arthur sighs, going over to Bedwyr to pet his stallion in thanks, “But I got a feelin’ that we’re just gettin' toyed with further.”

“Maybe we are, maybe we aren’t,” John argues, “But we got these damn horses, and we’re sellin’ ‘em no matter what.”

“Not the Arabian we aren’t,” Arthur corrects the other outlaw, “It’s the one Tavish wants. It’s the one we did all this for, actually.”

John huffs, “’Course it is. It’s the most expensive one of the lot.”

“Well, as you said, we have these other two... Granted, they’re not Arabians, but they aren’t common neither. Think we’ll get a good price for ‘em...”

Mounting onto D’or, you watch as Arthur takes his lasso out, hooking the black Arabian around the neck and tying it to Bedwyr’s saddle.

Javier and John also lasso their stolen horses, and they hold onto the rope as John and Javier take them to the front while you and Arthur hang in the back with the Arabian tailing behind.

You go past the entryway of camp, only to turn left off onto the road to ride past the remains of what once was a stone wall and building as you pass through the small field ahead. But then, right along the edge of the water, you see two men and a decrepit wagon, and you can hear their argument, albeit one-sided, from here.

“Listen, Clive,” the man who you now suspect to be Clay starts, sitting on top of the broken wagon and looking down to the massive, hulking man that is beside him, “I’m tellin’ ya, it’s a myth! Cocaine is as good for ya as is anythin’ else! Why I’d say it’s just as safe as water!”

“I’m not much of a cocaine man, myself,” John starts, and you see Clay and Clive react to your arrival.

“Well, I’ll be...” Clay jumps down, his narrow frame handling the impact well as he comes over to the horses Javier and John have lassoed behind them, “Looks like we got some visitors!”

“You the horse fence?”

Clay gets a reserved look about his face, and he questions back, “What if I am? What if I’m not?”

“Oh, drop the riddle. I ain’t got the time nor patience for games,” John snips back, “What I do have is horses. Horses that you might be interested in purchasin’.”

“Then you came to the right place!” Clay’s smirk plays over his lip, and he gestures back to the other man, “This here is my brother, Clive. He don’t say much, so if you want a conversation, I more than well make up for both of us!”

Javier chuckles, “So I’m noticing...”

Upon his words, Clay’s attention moves to Javier, and his eyes narrow.

“Oh... What are you?” Clay gets a bit of sneer in his voice, “You one of them Puerto Ricans?”

“By God, Lemoyne is just filled to the brim with you all,” Javier laughs, “Would you be offended if I said I like Puerto Ricans?”

Clay hums, rubbing his sharp jawline before he goes to fiddle with the ends of his mustache, “Hm... Just... Just don’t give me trouble and we’ll be fine.”

Javier chuckles once more, but he doesn’t say anything else as Clay moves behind him to view the Thoroughbred and the American Paint behind him and John.

Clay begins to make inane comments, looking over the horses, feeling their legs and lifting their lips to see their teeth in an overall assessment. He seems pleased with whatever he finds, nodding to himself and standing back with an appraising look as he crosses one arm over his chest, and rubs at his chin with the other.

“Hm... They’re not the best of breeds but they sure are unusual,” Clay comments, “Don’t think I’ve quite seen coats like theirs in a while, or if ever.”

“So they’re rare,” John says with some irritation as he looks over his shoulder, “Good. Means that you’ll pay more.”

“Ah ah ah! Don’t put words in my mouth before I’ve spoken any!” Clay points a finger at John, causing the man to scowl sourly, “I will pay more than what a stable does on account of a. . . _lack_ of papers. But that doesn’t mean you’ll get a fortune from me for these horses, rare or not.”

Growing short, John snaps, “Well, how much are you gonna pay? Or are we wastin’ our time?”

“Hey now, time ain’t wasted with me n’ Clive!” Clay gestures to his massive, towering brother, “We’re gonna make an offer if you’d be patient enough to hear it!”

John pointedly presses his lips together, and you can see by the way his eyes darken he would rather shoot Clay than do business at this rate.

Humming one final time as he looks to the horses, Clay makes his decision.

“I’ll give you six hundred. For both.”

John’s protest is immediate.

“I was quoted five thousand for these damn things!”

Clay laughs, and it’s a boisterous one at that. A type of laugh that makes your cheeks heat with both anger and mortification, for you’re the joke that has caused such an uproarious sound. They say sometimes you get the butt of a horse. But this time, it seems that you all are the butt of a joke.

“My, _five thousand?_ ” Clay repeats in humorous disbelief, “Friend, you are dumber than you seemed just two seconds ago!”

“I’m not—” John bites back his anger just enough to spare himself of removing his Colt from its holster at his hip, “Listen, I figured these horses weren’t five grand worth of my time, but they certainly gotta be worth more than just six-hundred put together!”

“It’s an American Paint and Thoroughbred!” Clay fires back, his laughter still edging through his voice, “What did you think you had, an Arabian?”

You and Arthur look behind you at the black Arabian, who seems to be eating grass now, unaware of its fate or the discussion before it.

Clay notices you and Arthur’s shifting gaze, and immediately lights up when he sees the subject of it.

“Oh... Oh my,” he lets out a small breath, intrigue and shock taking over his jovial mood that had been gifted so nicely by John Marston, and he comes over, looking at the black Arabian excitedly, “Now this you could get some money for!”

The crumpled expression that comes over Arthur’s face speaks more than the man himself as he corrects Clay.

“This one ain’t for sale, unfortunately.”

Clay’s smile falls, and he looks at Arthur like he lost his mind, “What? Seriously? I could pay you two grand for that one!”

John’s eyes about boggling out of his skull, “Are you serious?”

“Yes! I heard about this horse! It was bought from Saint Denis about a week or so ago...” Clay comes over to the Arabian’s side, going to pet his neck before Arthur ticks his tongue in warning at the man’s proximity, “It’s... Believe this is Nightingale. A racehorse that was imported over from Europe, after he won some of the races there... Can’t believe I'm gettin' to see him...”

“You know, we could just sell him,” Javier suggests, “It could make this actually worth our time.”

Arthur shoots the idea down immediately, “No. We can’t... Our _contact_ wants it. This is why we did this rustle in the first place!”

“I say listen to the Injun!” at that, Javier’s face does a dramatic dance of offense and confusion as Clay continues, “Unless your _contact_ is payin’ you in a nice pile of gold bars, you probably ain’t gettin' your money’s worth outta this horse.”

You can see the conflict in Arthur’s face, but he shakes his head, “I’m a man of my word... Even if I wish I wasn’t...”

Clay sighs, disappointed as he comes around the Arabian to Arthur’s side, patting his shoulder once before Arthur flicks the man’s hand off of him.

“It’s hard to honor deals, even when they’re shit,” he tells the outlaw empathetically.

Rolling his eyes, you can see Arthur’s patience running thin, “Just pay us for the Thoroughbred n’ Paint and we’ll be on our way!”

Clay nods, laughing a little as he goes over towards the wagon.

“Get the horses, Clive.”

The massive man comes over, silent as he is foreboding as he takes the horses by their leads, removing Javier and John’s lassoes and moving the horses off towards the wagon. As Clive does so, Clay appears, holding a good clip of money as he hands it over to John.

“I don’t know who you stole these horses from, let alone that Arabian,” he says with a bit of warning, “But you best be careful. A horse like that? They’re gonna go lookin’. And pray to God they don’t find out it was you.”

“I ain’t worried about them,” John fires back, pocketing the money easily, “What could they even do to me?”

Clay puts his hands up in surrender before walking back to his brother, and together, they get on top of the horses you had stolen from the Braithwaites.

“If you do end up needin’ to sell that Arabian, you know where to find us,” Clay salutes to you all, and then, looking to his brother, he says, “Come on, Clive! Let’s go!”

You watch as they spur the stolen horses, heading towards the main road as they head north with it, leaving you four behind in the field, barely lit by moonlight.

“God, this was a god damn mess,” John sighs, and he turns his horse alongside Javier to face you and Arthur, “Tavish better give you his god damn fortune for that Arabian. Otherwise, I think I might do the honors of shootin’ him for this shit.”

Arthur sighs, tired and in agreement with John’s statement, “Well, you n’ Javier should head back to camp. Wolf n’ I will go deliver the Arabian to Tavish, and the night will be over for all of us.”

John huffs, already spurring Old Boy forth, “A-fuckin’-men.”

Javier sends you and Arthur a hopeful smile as he also rides past on Boaz behind John, and you and Arthur watch as they leave, the vacant field now yours to reside in.

Letting out a small breath, you and Arthur adjust Bedwyr and D’or, turning them back towards the main road as the Arabian tails you with the help of Arthur’s tied lasso.

“Well, tonight is provin’ to be a good one,” you mutter.

“Today’s been shit,” Arthur says, “Ain’t nothin’ gone fuckin’ right.”

You can’t disagree, glancing up to the star-littered sky and saying, “Maybe we’ll get lucky soon... It can’t always be bad luck, right?”

“I don’t think this is bad luck, Wolf,” Arthur murmurs, and you look over to him, “I think this is karma.”

“Karma?” you echo in confusion.

“You know... What goes around comes back around, they say. A mortal Hell to make you repent...”

“I know what karma is,” you tell the outlaw, “I just don’t know why you’d think it’s karma at work.”

Arthur shakes his head as you turn to Rhodes, but instead, take one of the other branching roads to ride around it instead of through it.

“I just feel like... Like all of this, from the ferry to the Pinkertons... Every bad thing that’s happened to us so far is because we deserve it. Not as a consequence, necessarily. But because we ‘ve been askin’ for it for so long now.”

You remain silent as Arthur continues.

“You know, I’ve been thinkin’ about things a lot... A lot since before Blackwater... And I guess... I guess I always convinced myself that we’d come out of this eventually. That there would be a break in the clouds for us. A sunny day after months of rain, you know? Because it’s gotta happen sometime. It can’t just be all this,” the breath that Arthur lets out is defeated and solemn, “But I don’t think we’ve gotten any better.”

“We’ve had some good times,” you tell Arthur, your voice tinged with a hint of optimism, “I mean, Horseshoe was mostly good, wasn’t it?”

“But look at how it ended. And look at where we are now,” Arthur argues back, “I think we just weren’t seein’ things for what they were. Either ‘cause we were in denial, or we just didn’t know what was about to happen,” Arthur grows quiet for a second, but when he speaks again, you can hear the fear that haunts his voice, “I think... I think things are just gonna get worse now, Wolf. Not better.”

You look ahead, your voice quiet, “I... I know what you mean...”

“I say we get this damn Arabian to Tavish and just be done with it all,” Arthur sounds both tired and irritated then, “We got the bank robbery in the mornin’, so, if we don’t get much worth here, that robbery should more than make up for it. Maybe it might be the break we need.”

“Maybe,” you murmur, “Maybe...”

Caliga Hall comes into view, lit up in an array of lanterns and campfires for the night. Arthur takes the lead, greeting Tavish’s men at the gates once more and pulling the black Arabian in behind him. On D’or, you take up the rear, looking at Arthur’s back and the ominous face of the Gray’s estate as you grow closer and closer.

Surprisingly, it is lit up by electricity, and considering that, by the details on your map, it is so close to Saint Denis, it makes sense.

There, on its massive porch, under the cover of the second story supported by the massive columns out front, sits Tavish. He’s looking at you both with a wry, sinister grin, and he pulls his lit pipe from his mouth, chuckling as he exhales and hides his face under a veil of gray smoke.

In his opulent seating, he views you and Arthur’s arrival as though it were a start of a show in a theatre, and he claps his hands, grinning and laughing all the same as Arthur’s eyes narrow on him.

“We got the Arabian, like you asked,” Arthur sets his eyes on the man, practically squinting as Tavish amuses himself.

“That I see, boy, that I see,” Tavish stands, grunting just a little from the effort as he puts his pipe in one hand, and holds onto the lapel of his fine suit jacket with the other, “That’s the whore’s isn’t it?”

“The one n’ only,” Arthur confirms.

Snickering once more, Tavish asks, “Did you take her others? Pay Clay n’ Clive a little visit by the lakeshore?”

“We did,” Arthur murmurs, “Didn’t get quite what we asked for, but... We got money all the same.”

Tavish doesn’t comment on Arthur’s words, and instead, he stays on the porch as she motions for one of his men. A young man, about twenty or so, appears at his side, clad in gray in respect to the man’s name at his side, his brown eyes eager and locked onto Tavish as he opens his mouth to order him.

“Take Nightingale to the barn,” he instructs, “Hide him in the back, where he can’t be seen. That whore is lookin’ for him, and she sure as shit ain’t gonna find him here.”

The young man follows his orders, jumping down the steps in quick succession and going over to Arthur to take the lasso that is tied to the Arabian. The black horse follows along after the boy’s lead perfectly, disappearing past the side of the house as Arthur sets Tavish with a narrow gaze.

“You have the horse,” he states, “Now what do you have for us?”

“Pardon?” Tavish asks, his eyes becoming slits on Arthur at his words.

“You heard me,” Arthur challenges back, “You told us when you sent us after that Arabian that you would have somethin’ for us in exchange.”

At Arthur’s frank statement, Tavish laughs once more, shaking his head, “And I do believe I told you those other horses were five grand, and yet, they weren’t, were they?”  
Arthur grows deathly quiet, and Tavish continues.

“You got, what— probably under one grand for the two?” Tavish snickers, “My god, you are dumb, boy. Not as dumb as some I’ve encountered, but duller than god damn tin nonetheless.”

You can see rage begin to take over Arthur’s face as Tavish raises his pipe, taking one quick draw from it before exhaling once more. His eyes land on Arthur, and then you— his gaze cold as it is menacing, and you can tell the man viewed you as nothing more than an inconvenience now that your purpose was fulfilled.

As the smoke from his breath dissipates, the tension in the air grows between you and the man.

“I promised you nothin’, and that’s what I aim to give... And as for doin’ somethin’ for ya, as I see my son is the Sheriff of Rhodes, and you are one of his... _temporary_ deputies, I believe it will come as a rather pleasant courtesy of me to extend the offer of not turnin’ you in for stealin’ those Braithwaite horses,” he hisses, spiteful, “Consider it my only hospitality for your efforts, apart from lettin’ you leave here alive, of course.”

Growing enraged, Bedwyr shifts under Arthur, ears flattening back as the man growls through his teeth, “You goddamn _lyin’_ son of a—”

Arthur doesn’t get to finish the statement, as the Gray’s men begin to surround you, raising their weapons and aiming them at you both. The air feels like lead, heavy and oppressing as your heart feels like a hammer against your ribs, and your throat grows dry at the manic smile that appears on Tavish’s face.

“I believe you’re done here, Mr. Callahan. You and your own whore, unless you want to test the superficiality of my kindness for lettin’ you go,” Tavish lifts his pipe, taking one more pull of it as he sits down, eyes not leaving either of you until he pulls his pipe from his mouth and exhales, “Good day.”

Humiliated and played, you can see the fury that burns in Arthur. One that is hotter than the burning edges of the tobacco lining Tavish’s pipe as Arthur presses his lips together, and turns Bedwyr around in defeat.

The Gray’s men do not lower their guns, still aiming them at you and Arthur as you are forced to walk away in shame on your horses.

The ride down the path leading from the house to the road outside of Caliga Hall feels like a mile long now, which each step feeling as though there were twenty more added for your attempts at leaving. You notice the workers in the fields and the guards watching them eyeing you with either contempt or humor as you are forced to leave, fooled and used all the same as you walk away empty-handed.

Arthur is barely containing himself, face red and skin growing white on his knuckles and at his mouth by how tight he holds himself together, and he somehow manages to until you are out past the gate, and onto the main road with nothing to show for all that you put into tonight, and into the Grays.

“That goddamn lyin’ two-timin' piece of shit and bastard of a con-man!” Arthur practically shouts as soon as you are out of sight of Caliga Hall, keeping your horses at a light gallop now that you are free from the sights of any Grays and their men.

Angry yourself, you tell Arthur, “We shoulda just sold Nightingale to Clay n’ Clive! It would’ve been worth more of our time, and we wouldn’t have been run out like god damn coyotes in a chicken coop!”

“A coyote in a chicken coop had more honor in bein’ run out than we just did!” Arthur fires back, “That back there— that was somethin’ else!”

You can’t disagree, and you shake your head as you realize something.

“This ain’t gonna go over well with Dutch...”

“It ain’t goin’ over well with me, either!” Arthur seethes, “First he lied to us about the worth of her other horses, and then, he’s gonna lie to us and get that Arabian for nothin’ short of not turnin’ us in to his own son!? The one goddamn horse worth a damn outta all the ones we took!?”

Sighing, you point out, “At least we got _some_ money for the others.”

“We got Jack and Shit for both of those,” Arthur lets out a hot breath, “Five-thousand goddamn dollars, Wolf! We only got six-hundred and becomin’ nothin’ more than fools for it!”

“And the same day we get backfired on by Mrs. Braithwaite,” you mutter, and you look at Arthur, worried, “Do... What do you think Dutch is gonna do now? . . . Both families, they used us or they tried to get us for messin’ with ‘em... And I gotta feelin’ that neither are like kickin’ a hornet’s nest.”

“This? Dutch is probably gonna go to war with ‘em. Get ‘em back in ways that they’ll regret,” Arthur grumbles, “I normally don’t agree, but... Tavish deserves what’s comin’ to him.”

“Thought you weren’t about revenge?” you point out, brow furrowing, “You gave me a whole speech when it came to Francis... Does that mean nothin’ to you now?”

“Whether it’s karma or Dutch Van Der Linde, Tavish is gonna have to answer sometime. By God, or by the Devil in the form of someone he’s wronged,” Arthur explained, “This? This ain’t nothin’ like revenge, Wolf... This is somethin’ else, too.”

Dubiously, you ask, “Dutch ain’t gonna go to war with him, is he?”

“His version of war... I imagine it’ll be a lot like his feud with Colm... And Wolf, that was a nasty time...”

You look at the outlaw then, “What happened?”

“Normally, there’s a code. Honor among thieves, as you know... But with Colm, there wasn’t much honor. And Dutch, he didn’t have much patience for bein’ the only one tryin’... It started off with takin’ each other’s jobs, sendin’ the law each other’s way. Just causin’ grief in whatever ways we could manage, but nothin’ serious... But one day, it just... became somethin’ else... And after a little while, Dutch decides to kill Colm’s brother outta the blue. Hosea and I told him not to, but he didn’t listen,” Arthur grows quiet, his voice sad as he finds it again to say, “And Colm killed his Annabelle for it.”

You shake your head, “Ain’t no one gonna die this time though, right?” you ask.

Arthur looks at you, face as determined as he is fearful of the prospect, “As long as I can help it.”

The conversation lapses as you return to camp, and you see Dutch already waiting for you.

You can sense the man’s anger from here, and his scowl is evident as you slow your horses, and come upon him then.

“Please tell me that Arabian made this shit worth somethin’,” Dutch starts as Arthur slow Bedwyr to a halt, “Javier and John already told me— only _six-hundred_ for those two horses!”

“Well, they were worth more than the Arabian, apparently,” both you and Arthur dismount your horses as Dutch tilts his head, his eyes narrowing in a dangerous way as Arthur approaches him, continuing, “Tavish didn’t give us shit, Dutch. He used us. He played us with the Arabian as much as he did with the other horses. We only got six-hundred from the horse fence for our trouble, and as for Tavish, his payment was not turnin’ us in to his son. We were fools to go on this.”

“ _God dammit!”_

A few camp members look over, eyeing Dutch for his outburst as their leader fumes on the edge of camp.

“These god damn families! Leeches! Parasites!” Dutch roars, “That’s... That’s it, Arthur! We’re gonna get ‘em, money or not!”

“Now, Dutch,” Arthur starts, “I feel like we’ve done enough... We got the horses from Mrs. Braithwaite, and—”

“And Tavish _lied_ about ‘em all!” Dutch argues, “To hell with both of ‘em! I’d much rather storm their houses and steal their fortune than to play their games any longer!”

Hearing the uproar, Sean comes over, taking a keen interest in what’s happening.

“Tavish is the first,” Dutch says, “We have to make him know that he can’t just mess with the Van Der Linde gang and get away with it!”

“Oi, Dutch!” at the Irishman’s call, Dutch looks over to him, “You got a plan for how to get back at them Grays?”

Frowning, Dutch responds, “Not as of yet, no.”

“Well, might I make a suggestion?”

Dutch sighs, waving a hand to spur the man into talking.

“Well, see, when I used to live with my da in Ireland, we would move a lot—”

Tired, Dutch stops Sean early, “Son, I would rather not listen to a diatribe about your father... No offense,” he adds.

“No no, Dutch. The story is ‘bout my suggestion— just hear me out!”

Dutch looks like he’d rather pull his hair out than listen to Sean, but he allows him to proceed anyway.

“Well, like I was sayin’,” Sean restarts, “We moved a lot because my da always had a way with the neighbors. And by that, I mean by da always hated ‘em n’ gave ‘em hell,” he looks to Dutch then, his incomplete, toothy grin aimed at the man, “There was one in particular who was a potato farmer, and ya know what he did?”

Annoyed, Dutch asks, “What did he do?”

“He burned his potatoes!” Sean throws his arms apart at the reveal, looking ecstatic, “I snuck over wit’ him to da fields, and we burned ‘em right up we did! Cost that man everythin’! And then, we moved of course... Wonder if he still grows ‘em, now that I mention it...”

Despite Sean breaking off, Dutch’s eyes widen and begin to light up with something that you can’t place as he raises a hand.

“That...” his finger extends, and he points it to Sean, “That might just work!”

“What? Burnin’ their potatoes?”

“No! Just burnin’ their crops!” Dutch laughs, clapping his hands together once as he goes over to Sean, setting a hand on his shoulder, “You know, son, despite you drivin’ me up every wall imaginable on a constant basis, you have your moments.”

Chuckling, Sean fires back with, “Oh, Dutch, you’re the only man who can make me blush!”

“Don’t push it, kid,” Dutch sighs.

Stepping away from the Irishman, Dutch’s smile returns once more, and you can see the wheels turning in his head.  
“I think we have ourselves a plan, boys,” Dutch’s smirk is sinister, “What an irony it would be. To have all of that government-subsidized tobacco burn away from an unfortunate lantern accident. And why with the drought they’ve had these past few months, it wouldn’t be too hard for them to lose entire fields of it!”

At Dutch’s open brainstorming, you frown at the implications, and you speak up.

“Do you really think burnin’ it is a good idea?” you try not to fidget under Dutch’s gaze as his smile falls some, “His son is the sheriff. Rhodes is under his thumb. With Mrs. Braithwaite already tryin’ to get at our throats, do you think it’s a good idea to go for the Gray’s?”

“Well, Ms. Broce, if you are so concerned about retaliation, as I stated, it would be made to look like an accident,” Dutch points out.

“An accident so conveniently timed after he handed us our asses over those horses?”

“He didn’t do that,” Dutch huffs, and you can see the statement offends the man, “But we will be sure to do the honors tomorrow, after this bank robbery in Valentine. You, Arthur, n’ Sean will go since they wronged you face to face and Sean gave us the suggestion.”

“Sounds great! Ah, the fine joys of tobacco— right, boss?” Sean pipes in.

“That’s right,” Dutch catches Sean around the shoulder, pulling off his bowler hat and ruffling his bright, orange hair before sticking his hat back onto his head.

Sean laughs, taking the action merrily as you and Arthur look on without a word.

Your frown is obvious as Arthur sighs and looks to you, the bags under his eyes stark even in the soft, ambient lighting from the scout fire about two yards away.

“Guess we got another long day ahead of us, Wolf.”

Sighing as you begin to head to your respective tents for the night, you mutter, “Don’t we always. . .”

 

**\---**

The sun rises slowly, just as you do come first morning light.

You have to admit, how you slept... Well, it would be more accurate to say how you _didn’t_ sleep.

Scant and dreamless, it was. And more often than you would’ve liked, you would wake, your stinging, aching eyes going to rest upon the canopy of canvas overhead, partially lit by the fire at Pearson’s wagon until the sun began to shift the colors in the sky.

You hear Cain barking, and the canvas at the front of your tent shifts as you see two shadows dart past the front of your tent.

“Jack! Stop playin’ so rough with that damn dog!” Abigail shouts, “I told you, you need to be readin’!”

“But mama!” you hear Jack argue back as you sit upright on your cot, “Cain won’t let me!”

“Jack Marston, you get your butt over to this tent and start your readin’! Hosea was kind enough to lend you some new books! Now get to ‘em!”

With a saddened sigh, you hear Jack relent as you through your feet onto the ground below your cot, “Yes, mama...”

Despite his compliance, you can hear Cain and see his shadow following Jack loyally as Jack retreats back to his mother’s tent, and you smile softly, only to have it fall as you remember how the dog got here in the first place.

Now soured, you get up yourself, pulling a fresh, white everyday shirt to wear alongside one of the rattier pairs of jeans you had in your wardrobe trunk. Dressing quickly, you don’t waste time, brushing through your hair and getting yourself ready for today. It’s just as you are getting ready to leave your tent, now clad with your satchel, boots, and hat, that your canvas is opened before you’ve even touched it.

“Rise n’ shine, gorgeous!”

You jump, looking over to see Karen beaming at you. Your mouth gapes, and your tired brain slowly processes how she has come to greet you.  
Instead of being in her standard dress, Karen is now wearing a fancy black and red dress, complete with a small hairpiece adorned with one long black feather in lieu of her usual purple and white day dress.

You blink at her, taking in the change of outfit as she carries something in her arms, something bulky and made of a royal blue fabric with bright, white accents as she steps inside your tent. The canvas flaps falling back into place as she parts through them and tosses whatever it is that she’s carrying onto your cot.

“Karen, what on earth—”

“We’re robbin’ a bank today, Wolf,” she tells you, “Not some barn or saloon.”

Not following, you question her, “Excuse me?”

“You can’t go into the Valentine bank lookin’ like that!” then, she mutters under her breath, “Although, you don’t look too bad as you are...”

Rolling your eyes lightly, you pick up a length of the fabric and crinkle your nose in slight disgust, “What in the hell is this?”

“A dress,” she states, “You know, like you used to wear before you went runnin’ around with Arthur on the regular.”

“Oh. Oh no.”

“ _Oh no_ Karen, I’m _not_ goin’ to be wearin’ what I already am. You’re right, I should wear this dress for the robbery!” she says, impersonating your voice.

“It ain’t somethin’ I’d label as robbery attire—”

“We ain’t gotta dress like the men to be capable, Wolf,” she points out, smiling, “See, that’s the magic about women. We can wear the most ridiculous things and do just as much as a man could in a shirt n’ pants. And sometimes, we don’t even have to break a sweat!”

“Okay, but what if we gotta run?”

“We won’t have to run!” Karen smiles, “See, you n’ I, we’re gonna be a distraction. We’re gonna have the tellers pay attention to us, get everyone in sight, and then the boys are gonna come in and lock everythin’ else down.”

Sighing, you ask, “Who all is comin’?”

“You, me, Bill, Sean, and Arthur,” Karen grins, “I know you’re a fan of that last one.”

“Not as much as you are a fan of second-to-last!”

Karen snickers at your bite, “So we both like ‘em, who cares?”

“Karen,” you murmur, blushing.

Growing serious, Karen takes your hat off of your head and also grabs your satchel, “Wolf, I love you. I really do. But you need to be honest with yourself more than you even need to be honest with Arthur.”

Swallowing thickly as you watch her set your satchel and hat aside, you shakily ask, “A-And by that you mean?”

“Stop lyin’ about how you feel for him,” she states, and she sounds just as serious during your talk back in Valentine, the one you had when you and Arthur first really ever fought.

You look down, turning so that you can begin undressing so that you can put on your appropriated dress.

“I ain’t lyin’...”

“Yes, you are. You know you are. We all know you are,” she informs you as you dress down to your chemise, grabbing the blue monstrosity of fabric off of your cot, “You think any of us have been blind these past few months since you came here? How you two would eat together at night when you were new, or he took you out on jobs when he didn’t even really have a reason to trust you? I mean, you got here because he _asked to have you!_ Arthur has never done that before durin’ the entire time he has been in this gang!”

“We ain’t like we were then...” you weakly argue back as you slip the dress over your head, and pull the fabric past your face.

“You’re right! You’re not. Because you’re even closer now, Wolf!” Karen spins you around, the length of the blue dress falling down close to your ankles in a dramatic fashion as you’re forced to face the other woman, “Stop pretendin’ like he doesn’t care, or you don’t care! I can’t honestly stand seein’ you two just denyin’ yourselves of each other when it’s all that you want, and all that’s stoppin’ you are yourselves!”

You remain silent as Karen relents only a little, but you can tell how sincere she is being underneath her impatience with you.

“I used to pretend like I didn’t love Sean for a long while, and you know how it made me feel, Wolf?” but you don’t guess as Karen continues, “It made me feel awful, because the one thing that I wanted for myself, the one thing that was gonna make me happy, I wouldn’t let myself have it. Just a few words, just a few seconds of honesty... That’s all it took... And Wolf? I’ve been so grateful ever since.”

You look down to your boots, your face burning in a way you can’t describe while your voice is hoarse and strained, “But... What if he doesn’t—”

“He does. He _has,_ ” Karen assures you with a whisper, and she tilts your head up by a finger under your chin and smiles at you, “Doubt like this isn’t flatterin’ to ya, Wolf... You’re always certain of your feelings. And I’m sure you’re certain of them now.”

You aren’t sure what to say, but Karen sighs, going back onto your cot to where you see a white ribbon with lace laying there.

Taking it, she turns you, fixing your hair to where the ribbon is tied around your head, accenting your hair perfectly to match the white accents of the dress. In the broken mirror, you take in your reflection, not recognizing the woman that stands before you.

“You’re a beautiful, determined, and strong woman,” Karen whispers behind you as she fixes the ribbon, tying it into place as delicately as she speaks, “What’s not for him to love?”

Your eyes water just a little, and as her hands fall away, you turn your head to look at her.

“Thank you,” you whisper gratefully.

“You’re welcome. And consider yourself lucky, I’m not usually sentimental like this,” she then grabs your satchel, handing it to you while she places your hat onto its respective peg, “Now come on! We got money with our name on it!”

Your stomach churns as you follow Karen, out of a combination of both gratefulness for your interaction, and nerves with what you are to do next.

As you both walk through camp, dressed and gussied up for the occasion, you feel the eyes of the other gang members, as well as getting a few whistles for your efforts.

“My my, Ms. Broce,” Micah truly leers, eyeing you from the scout fire as you walk past, “You sure clean up nice... Makes me wonder who the wolf truly is when you’re as sweet lookin’ as a lamb.”

“Trust me, I still have teeth of my own,” you smirk without any kindness in it towards him, but it only causes Micah’s gaze to grow sicker, and his smirk to widen.

“Micah, that’s enough, ya pile of horse manure!” Sean nips, coming over to Karen from where you see him and the others gathering at the edge of camp, “One more word, and I’ll knock your yellow fuckin’ teeth out.”

“And I’ll knock the rest of yours out, boy!”

“Oh, let up, Micah,” Dutch lightly chastises the man as he comes up to the fire, but then, as he takes you in, that smile from before is back, “But, I must also agree with him. You do look very flatterin’, Ms. Broce.”

Rolling your eyes, you mutter, “I’m not here to flatter anybody...”

But before anything else can happen, you hear a small noise from your side.

Turning, you look to see Arthur, lips slightly parted as he looks at you. His eyes aren’t even close to your face, they are trying to take in the monstrosity that is your bright, blue dress until he manages to work his way back up to your face. The blush in your cheeks must make for a fine contrast of color, and you cross your arms, looking to the ground out of embarrassment.

“Karen insisted,” you explain, as though the words would just remove the damned dress and the attention it’s brought you.

“Well, it—” Arthur clears his throat, his voice going back up an octave as he pointedly says, “It looks nice... On you... Well, it’s a nice dress, but... You look good.”

Blushing from both Arthur’s tongue tripping over itself and your own embarrassment, you murmur, “T-Thank you...”

“I picked it for her myself,” Karen boasts from Sean’s side, “The blue just works for her, doesn’t it?”

“Yes... It... It’ll work for today,” Arthur says, and the words feel like a safe spot for him to settle on, “Alright, come on. Now that we got the attire squared away, we can huddle and get the plan through one last time with everyone present.”

Glad that the attention has moved off from you, you walk with Arthur towards a small gathering of your horses and Bill Williamson to their sides, while you and Arthur walk together. Sean and Karen walk behind you, coming forth as Bill takes notice of your arrival and Arthur’s return, and he snickers as he takes in the dresses that you and Karen wear.

“Are we robbin’ a bank today, or a dinner party?” he cackles.

“It could be either. A man like you probably doesn’t know what a dinner party is,” Karen fires back.

At the remark, Bill’s face turns a dangerous shade of red as Arthur takes over the conversation.

“Alright, alright. Enough fussin’. We ain’t even left the damn camp yet!” he huffs, he then looks to all of you, sighing as he begins to explain the plan for the robbery, “So. Wolf n’ Karen will serve as distractions to get every teller to the front. Preferably, even to get one out on the floor, outside the teller room where they can lock themselves in. That way, we don’t have any stragglers who can fully secure the safes, or run off to get the law before we’re hightailin’ it outta there with our bags of money in tow.”

He then looks to Sean and Bill.

“Once they got everyone in the bank together, we burst through the door, faces covered. Bill and Sean, you’re gonna hold the two officers working detail in the bank under gunpoint while I get the main teller to take us to the safe room. Remember, no firin’ any guns or causin’ a major disturbance. We want this to be as clean as possible without alertin’ the sheriff down the road about what we’re doin’ until we’re long gone with the cash.”

Grumpily, Bill points a finger at Arthur, “And why do _you_ get to rob the safes?”

“Because I won’t fuck it up, Bill.”

“Like you wouldn’t!”

Shrugging, Arthur comments, “If I do, it’s just one of them things.”

“Oh please, if I mess up, and I’m the village idiot for _weeks_ before you all consider lettin’ it down. But if you do, it’s just one of them things?” Bill says mockingly.  
Snickering, Sean butts in, “Ya know, Arthur, Bill’s got a point!”

Buckling a little under their unified criticism, Arthur motions for them to calm down, “Okay, one of them things or not, Bill, you probably would shoot the teller before he got you the money, and Sean... I don’t think they could even understand you, honestly.”

Hearing this, both men seem to nod in agreement.

“Now that’s fair,” they say in unison.

“Alright, so enough bickerin’ over who does what n’ why,” Arthur lets out a hitched breath, “Now, they had the auction today, early mornin’. They should be gettin' the funds placed into the safes about the time we arrive. We do this right and get out without anyone screamin’ before we get to the horses, we should have a clean break.”

Sean whistles, excited as always, “Sounds like a plan, English!”

Bill nods his compliance with the plan as well, “We ridin’ out now?”

“Now that we’re all here, sure,” Arthur pauses, “But everyone has everythin’ they need, right?”

Everyone nods and Arthur dips his head once in finality.

“Good. Then we’re gonna head out.”

“Mr. Morgan!”

Arthur turns, and you frown as you see Strauss approaching.

The old Austrian is holding a small ledger and an envelope in his hand, and he pushes his glasses up his nose as he looks to the outlaw at your side.

“I know that you are going to Valentine today for this robbery of yours,” Strauss begins, “It turns out that we have some familiar business there as well.”

Eyes narrowing, Arthur sends Strauss a restrained look, “What do ya mean by familiar?”

“Listen, I... I wish to talk to you about this in private, but...” Strauss looks to you then, offering up the envelope he had against his ledger, “This is for you, Ms. Broce.”

At the offer, you outstretch your hand, taking the letter from Strauss and pulling it close, seeing the front marked with your mother’s beautiful handwriting.

_Fleur_

“Another from your mom?” Arthur asks curiously.

“Yes...” you murmur, blinking, “I wasn’t... I didn’t expect her to write back so fast.”

As you begin looking at the letter, Strauss approaches Arthur.

“May I speak to you for just a moment?”

“Better make it quick, Strauss...”

They step away, and with you being left on your own, you glance at them as you walk towards the horses, pocketing your mother’s letter as you approach D’or.

“What’s with the braids?” Karen asks from atop her horse, Old Belle, nodding her head once towards your mare.

“It was Jack’s doin’,” you tell her, “He did it why we washed the horses up this mornin’.”

Karen chuckles, nodding as her smoky black Nokota shifts underneath her, “They look good. The flowers were a nice touch, too.”

“Aren’t they?” you say, regarding your mare and the careful braiding of her mane, along with the flowers that are intertwined into them as well, “Think I’m a fan of it.”

You then go to saddle up on D’or ass Arthur returns, looking rather displeased as Strauss returns to his wagon some yards away. Frowning as Karen begins to joke with Bill and Sean, you wait till Arthur is close enough to speak to him.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine,” the outlaw states, and you see him quell his upset very quickly at your recognition of it, “Just... had some quick words with Strauss...”

You’re not sure how to press further about the issue, but you figure there’s probably no better way at the moment, especially with the robbery coming up so soon. So instead, you let it go, allowing Arthur to get his space while you attempt to mount onto D’or.

Thankfully, the dress that Karen had picked for you doesn’t hinder you from hopping onto D’or, and you manage to do so without falling onto your face or having the dress get too coiled around your legs or hips to allow you to sit on her properly. Still, you long for the original outfit that you had intended to wear, and you sigh as you manage to get yourself settled after a few moments.

Beside you, you can see Arthur’s lips twitch in the corners of his lips.

“You good there?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, glaring at the vibrant blue fabric folded up and collected about your waist on D’or’s saddle, “Just gonna have to get used to this horrid shit again.”

Your words make Arthur chuckle heartily, and you form one section of the group as Sean and Karen take the front, you and Arthur in the middle, and Bill follows on in the back.  
Together, you start on the trail heading out to camp, and your ride to Valentine.

“So, you ever done anythin’ like this, Wolf?” Sean asks, looking back over his shoulder at you.

“No, not exactly,” you say, and your nerves pass over a bit into your words, “Arthur and I tried to do a homestead robbery back in Blackwater, before the ferry. But the O’Driscolls beat us to it...”

Before Sean can speak up, his mouth open to respond to you, Bill beats him to the punch as you get out onto the main road.

“Oh lord, don’t even talk about them,” Bill mutters grumpily, “You know, Pearson went into Rhodes a day or two ago n’ got all excited because he said that Colm was talkin’ about a parlay.”

At that, Arthur snorts, “Oh, now that I doubt.”

“Pearson didn’t doubt it. In fact, he seems quite convinced. Micah included,” Bill tells the other outlaw.

“It ain’t hard to fool Micah,” Arthur snips, adding, “And Pearson? Well... He doesn’t do much other than cook for a reason.”

“Cook poorly, I say,” Sean tuts.

Arthur waves a dismissive hand, “Either way, that’s what they said about Colm? A parlay? Do they even know what they’re sayin’?”

“They’re apparently meetin’ sometime tomorrow, I think. Dutch wasn’t entirely sold on it, but Pearson and Micah were tryin’ to convince him to go for it.”

Growing confused, you pipe up, “From what I’ve been told, I don’t think a parlay is possible...”

Bill chuckles, a bit of sneer in his voice, “Oh, and why do you figure that, Miss Wolf?”

Ignoring Bill’s condescending tone, you answer him, “Arthur told me about the past between Colm n’ Dutch... That Dutch killed Colm’s brother, and in turn, Colm killed Annabelle to get back at Dutch... That don’t feel like somethin’ you can just talk over n’ put behind ya. Especially with Dutch.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Sean hums, but a bit of suspicion grows in the Irishman’s voice, “But what do you mean by _especially with Dutch?”_  
You feel a bit of heat rise on your neck as you explain yourself, knowing that your words must be carefully chosen with some gang members about their leader.

“Nothin’ much, Sean. Just that, with how he’s reactin’ to the Braithwaite and Grays, he ain’t really one to settle scores just through talkin’ about them and writin’ ‘em off with even things like horse rustlin’ or shine... Colm killin’ Annabelle? That sounds like somethin’ anyone wouldn’t ever forgive someone for. And it just sure don’t sound like Dutch, is all.”  
Sean snorts, and you feel some relief that Sean seems to accept your answer without fuss.

“Yeah, it doesn’t really... But Dutch has done things like that before. Things you don’t expect him to do,” Sean starts, “Ya know, I think that people are just givin’ Dutch too hard of a time... Ever since the ferry, and I got back after those bounty hunters tried to kidnap me—”

Arthur snorts, “They _did_ kidnap you.”

Sean continues as though Arthur hadn’t said a word, and you chuckle to yourself lightly.

“—Dutch has been doin’ nothin’ but tryin’ for this gang. We’ve all made mistakes, or sometimes, the cards are just stacked against us... Dutch, he’s always wanted to take care of all of us, and sometimes, you can’t make everyone happy by doin’ the right thing.”

You feel like there is a rebuttal you can give Sean’s words, but you refrain, opting to stay silent as Sean thankfully shifts the conversation away from Dutch and the opinions of him from those who follow him.

“So. Like you said earlier— this is your first robbery, Wolf?”

“Yes,” you grip a little tighter onto D’or’s reins.

“Are you excited?” Sean shoots you another smile.

“I’m nervous if that counts.”

Sean chuckles as Karen speaks up, “Don’t worry, Wolf. It’s always nerve-wrackin', your first time. But just remember to stay in the moment and don’t let your nerves get to you, and if you do that, you’ll be fine.”

Sighing, you murmur, “Thank you...”

“Of course!” Karen pipes back, “But also, it is Valentine. That sad town won’t put up much of a fuss, I’m certain.”

Arthur snorts, “I’m sure they would, if given half a chance... Our last time in town wasn’t exactly the most well-received.”

Bill huffs, “You n’ the boys shot up more than half of it, fuedin’ with Cornwall! We were lucky the Pinkertons weren’t in town, or otherwise, it would’ve brought us a lot more trouble than havin’ to move so soon!”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur fires back, “It’s not like we sought them out, Bill. We were in town, meetin’ Dutch up at a small saloon for a drink. And then all of the sudden, Cornwall’s outside pointin’ a gun to Wolf’s head and we were in a shootout.”

Gasping, Karen looks back at you, “Cornwall held you at gunpoint!?”

“Oh, yeah... He did,” you murmur, voice soft, “Wasn’t the best of times I had, but I made it out alright.”

“You... You never told me that happened,” Karen’s voice is a bit stricken.

“It was kinda lost in the moment,” you tell her, “And truthfully, it’s one of those things you wanna forget.”

Humming, Karen relents some, “True... I... I would want to forget somethin’ like that too.”

“Listen, what happened in Valentine before we had to leave was bad all around, and I’m sure the locals just wanna forget it themselves,” Arthur buts in, getting the attention off of you a little, and you send him a grateful look, “But, we still need to be careful... I’m not sure if anyone will recognize us or not, bein’ that we were there about two weeks ago, and our time there was not spent layin’ low like we said we would. We could easily botch the job if we draw attention to us prematurely.”

“Layin’ low for us is like climbin’ to the top of a mountain and then jumpin’ off its tip,” Sean jokes, “Meanwhile, if Uncle laid any lower, he’d be horizontal.”

Sean’s joke gets a laugh out of you all as you near the Heartlands once more.

The geography changes, shifting from the rusty soil and magnolia trees to vast and open grassland that rolls out like a massive, rippling piece of fabric caught in the wind. The tall grass that grows past the clearance of the road sways in the breeze, carrying the scent of blossoming wildflowers and fertile soil, and you take a deep breath, enjoying the lungful of fresh air that doesn’t smell like stagnant lake water.

“God, I do miss this place,” Bill laments, giving Brown Jack a good pat as he reminisces.

“Lemoyne feels and smell like an outhouse in tha heat of summer,” Sean says in agreement with Bill, “One reason I hate the damn south.”

You all share a chuckle as you continue riding, opting for silence as you get closer and closer to Valentine. You even pass by where Horseshoe Overlook was, and you see the clearing that had once been yours occupied with two wagons and some families as you pass by, and a nostalgic feeling washes over you as you near town.

D’or recognizes where she is as well, somewhat guiding herself from habit as you see Valentine in the distance, and the familiar musk of fresh mud and livestock hits the air. A slight overcast hangs over the city, per its usual as you arrive.

“Ugh, now this I didn’t miss,” Bill comments as you all begin to slow your horses.

“The auction was early this mornin’,” Karen explains, “So yeah, the stench is gonna be a bit more than usual...”

“Stench or not, remember the plan,” Arthur says as you come near the train tracks before entering the town, “We’ll hitch our horses near the end of town, a little past and down from the sheriff’s office, and then, we’ll talk to the bank. Simple and easy, and leisurely too. Just some ordinary folk wanderin’ for whatever mundane reason.”

“Ugh, ‘course it’s gotta be borin’ right before,” Sean mutters.

“Sorry, we can’t afford the excitement and possibly blowin’ this,” Arthur explains, “If Karen’s right, we need all the money we can get. Especially since this pissin’ match just started with the Grays and Braithwaites,” Arthur’s voice lowers in volume, and you clump closer together as you start riding past the train station and the auction yard comes into view, “This could be our only chance to make a decent enough amount of money, especially if we gotta run early again.”

“Here’s to hopin’ we don’t even have to run after the bank,” Bill mutters, and you all hush as you near a few hitching posts right off the main road, behind the gunsmith.

Grabbing onto D’or’s reins to loosely hitch her, you can feel your nerves grow in tension, sinking their grip onto your stomach and twisting in an ugly way that makes you feel nauseous as you wait for the others. As you do, you notice all of the bullet holes marring the wood of the buildings, and the windows that are still boarded up, broken and awaiting new panes.

You remember that day when Cornwall had confronted Dutch here in town. How it all turned into a hail of bullets, starting with a gun pressed to your temple. And oh, how easily it could’ve ended for you with just one having been fired. . .

You shake the thoughts that come up from the memories, and you cross your arms to try and comfort yourself.

Everyone dismounts, meeting up by the back end of the gunsmith’s wrap-around porch. Karen comes up to your side, linking your arms together and pulling apart from the men.

“We will walk a bit ahead, make it look like we aren’t together,” she explains.

Arthur takes in her words, nodding, “Good. It’ll look better for us.”

Karen speeds up some, adding distance between you and the boys, and you can feel Karen give a reassuring squeeze to your arm.

“It’s okay, Wolf,” she tells you, whispering into your ear as you let out an anxious breath, “This is gonna go well, alright? There’s no need to worry.”

“I’m gonna worry no matter what,” you hiss under your breath, “Ain’t no way to feel good about any of this...”

“Listen, I’ll do most of the distractin’... I can play a drunk, harlot of a woman, and you can be my nervous friend who’s tryin’ to stop me from makin’ a scene that I’m already makin’. How’s that?” she suggests.

Shuffling your dress some, you murmur back, “I... I think that will be manageable.”

“Good, because it’s what we’re doin’,” she states as you near the bank, the familiar building making your throat grow dry and Karen immediately shifts into her character, and pulls a small flask of whiskey from somewhere under her dress, “D-Don’t worry! I just need to grab some m... m... Money, and we’ll be fine.”

You blink, not already expecting things to already begin so suddenly as Karen rips away from you, slightly stumbling as she downs the small flask, earning her breath a righteous scent of stout alcohol as she reaches the door of the banks. She tosses the now empty flask onto the muddy road behind her, catching the eyes of a few townsfolk as she barges into the bank, and you glance behind you.

The men are following, and you see Arthur motion to you to quickly follow Karen.

Forced into action, you press through the swinging doors yourself, finding Karen drawing the attention of both guards and all of the people in the bank as she continues her drunk façade.

“Hey there, f-folks!” she pretends to slur, her boot purposefully catching a little on the floor as she pushes past the line of waiting people, causing grunts of irritation and gasps of shock to follow her, “I’m just needin’ to make a w-withdrawal!”

“Ma’am,” the poor teller says from behind the glass as you rush up to Karen, the woman pressing herself up against the pane of glass separating her from the teller as you begin to pull her back, “I believe you need to leave...”

“C-Come on,” you look around, and you feel a bit sheepish under everyone’s menacing gaze as you attempt to pull Karen back, “There’s no need to be like that!”

“Nonsense!” Karen shouts, offended as she pulls herself from her grip as the two guards approach you both, “I’m a f-fine member of this bank! I deserve to g-get my money!”

“Ma’am,” one of the guards grabs both you and then Karen, and the rest of the tellers come out to see the commotion, “I believe it’s time you leave—”

“Oh, and I’m sure you have a f-fine member too!” Karen giggles, causing the people around you both to react to her comment repulsively.

Before anything else can happen, however, the doors to the bank split open, with Bill securing them back as Arthur and Sean pass through, guns raised and their faces covered as Arthur directs everyone down with his Colt.

“Alright, this doesn’t have to be too hard or messy,” the man growls, his voice garnering an almost demonic timber as he addresses the room, the guards at you and Karen’s sides frozen with Sean and Arthur’s aim directed at them, “We just need to make a withdrawal too, if that’s alright.”

Sean comes forth, pulling Karen from the guard and hitting the man back, causing him to stumble and fall against the wooden wall separating the tellers from the main room of the bank. He lets out a grunt as Karen kisses Sean’s cheek, pulling her red scarf around her face as she then pulls away from Sean and comes over to you.

“Believe it’s time you let my friend go,” she hisses, and as she raises her own gun, the guard lets go of you immediately, and you let out a tense breath as Karen pulls you away,  
“Alright, do what you need, Arthur. We got the guards.”

Coming over to you with Bill, Arthur keeps his eyes on the teller that had foolishly stepped out of the back and onto the main floor, his eyes and aim set on the man now to keep him from running behind the door he had just come through.

“Put your cover on,” he whispers hotly to you.

Realizing how you had been frozen, you pull Arthur’s neckerchief over your face, and you feel him grab ahold of your wrist.

“Sean and Bill, keep your aim on the guards. Karen, go to the door and keep anyone from comin’ in or out.”

“You got it, boss!” Sean fires back cheerfully as Karen repositions herself at the main doors at the front.

Arthur guides you over to the teller, and he then goes into his satchel with one hand, removing what appears to be an empty canvas bag as he hands it over to you.

“W-What—” you stutter, unsure of what is happening now.

“Don’t say anythin’. I don’t need you to. I just need you to do as you’re told,” Arthur says quickly, and you grab onto the canvas bag, taking it into your clammy hands as you hear the frightened whispers and noises of the poor people trapped in the bank behind you, “Now, sir, you’re gonna take us to the safes.”

“I’m not gonna—”

You’re speechless as you see Arthur knock the man against the wall, his Colt clicking as he revolves it over quickly, his eyes narrowing on the teller.

“Alright, alright!” he relents, terrified and pale as he raises his hands in surrender.

“Good, now take us to those damn safes.”

The teller nods, shaking and stumbling as he presses against the wall, turning and going towards the door. He moves slowly as to not give Arthur any cause for firing as you walk behind the outlaw, your fingers gripping so tightly onto the fabric of the bag you carry you worry it is going to rip before you even get to the safes.

Arthur, however, remains perfectly calm, following the teller into the side room to where the rich mahogany walls encase a wall of about four brand-new safes. Their black paint with gold embellishments make your eyes widen as the teller motions to them fearfully.

“There! There t-they are—”

“Unlock ‘em.”

“S-Sir, I can’t—”

Growing impatient, Arthur looks at you, “You ever unlock a safe before?”

Surprised at the outlaw’s acknowledgement, you hiss back, “No!”

“Well, you’re goin’ to today,” he nods towards the safes then, “Go up to ‘em and use your ear. You gotta press up against the door n’ listen. What you’re gonna do is turn the dial clockwise until you hear a click. Once you do, reverse the way you’re turnin’ and go in the opposite way until you’ve entered the next number in the code. It’ll unlock on the third click.”

You look at Arthur as though he were telling you to somehow fly right there on command, but he raises his eyebrows back at you, insistent.

Giving up, you know now is not the time to fight about such a thing, being already too deep into this volatile process to cause such a hiccup now. You rush over to the safes, going to the first on the far left as you do as Arthur instructed.

Pressing your right ear against the cool metal of the safe, you can hear both the heavy breathing of the teller and Arthur in the room, accompanied by your heartbeat on the other side from where your ear is pressed up against the safe. With unsteady and clammy fingertips, you grasp onto the golden dial forming the lock on the safe, and you begin to turn it clockwise as you try to keep your breathing steady.

After a few turns, you hear the metal gears give off a distinct click from behind the cover of the door, and you take in a sharp breath as you ready to turn the dial the other way.

Repeating this one more time, you manage to hear the final, third click, and you reach for the golden handle on the outside of the safe. Lifting it, you feel the internal latch give, and the safe door opens, revealing a pile of cash larger than you’d ever imagined.

“Shit,” Arthur says, and despite the bandana that covers his face, you can tell the man is impressed by the amount of money that he sees.

You ignore Arthur’s comment, taking your arm and clearing the safe’s contents into the awaiting canvas bag below until it is hollowed and emptied. Now vacant and no longer holding anything of value inside, you move your satchel and your attention over to the safe to its right, and you prepare to empty it in the same fashion as the first.

You manage to get to the third safe without issue, your canvas bag bulging by the time you get to the fourth and final safe, and your throat goes dry as you begin to press your ear to the metal door when Bill shouts.

“Arthur, we need to hurry up! We can’t take too long!”

“I know!” the outlaw shouts back, and then, he looks to you, his voice steady, “It’s alright, just do what you need to how you need to.”

You have never been so terrified in your life as you begin on the third safe, and you hear the first click easily.

“Arthur! I think people know somethin’ is up!”

“Just keep goin’, Wolf,” Arthur encourages you as your fingers nearly slip off of the dial, your heartbeat picking up in pace to the point where you can’t hear the gears of the safe over its thunderous pounding, “You got this, okay?”

The second click goes.

Hurrying to start on the third and last part of the code, you hear Karen curse.

“Arthur, someone’s gettin' the sheriff!”

“Wolf, _just focus on the safe._ ”

_Turn. Turn. Turn._

“The sheriff is comin’ out, Arthur!”

“You’re almost there, Wolf!”

_Turn. Turn._

Your hand loses grip on the dial, and you try to go faster as you feel your dress cling to your body like a second skin, the air of the room feeling as though it were closing in and crushing on you as you struggle to hear the dial.

“He’s walkin’ over to the bank now!”

_CLICK._

You rip the door to the last safe open, grabbing the last of the contents from it in a blinding panic that has Arthur cursing from behind you.

Somehow, you don’t manage to drop a thing, and you quickly twist the top of the canvas bag, tying a poor looped knot with the extra fabric as you lift it hurriedly.

“Arthur, we need to leave _now!”_

“We got the money,” Arthur pushes the teller back into the room as you come up next to him, his had going to the small of your back to push you out of the door to where you meet Karen and Sean back in the main room, “Come on, we’ll get out through the back!”

Running away from the guards and the door, the five of you rush to the teller’s room, pushing open the door there and filing through almost as though you were a fleeing herd of cattle as the rear door leading out of the bank comes into view.

“Help! They’re robbin’ the bank!” one of the women screams.

Immediately, your heart stops, and you hear the front doors to the bank slam open as Arthur kicks the back one almost off its hinges.

“Let’s go!”

“Stop right there!” the sheriff growls.

Not wasting any time, the five of you don’t hesitate to sprint through the new opening, the back wall of the bank splintering in the following gunfire from the sheriff and his men from behind you.

You grip tightly onto the canvas bag in your hand, feeling the heftiness of the money inside, and it feels as though the cloth covering your face is suffocating you as you run.  
Behind the backs of the main shops, you hear the commotion that has started because of the robbery, with both lawmen and townsfolk shouting all the same as they pursue you.

“God, we need to get out of here!” Bill growls as you near the end of the gunsmith, seeing your horses loosely tacked there and waiting for you all.

“Come on!”

A bullet whizzes past you again, and you look back over your shoulder as you get to D’or to see several lawman and the sheriff giving chase after you.

“Get up, Wolf!” Arthur shouts at you.

You’re uncertain of what’s happening until you feel arms encircle you and heft you up.

Blinking, you have to adjust to D’or in a fraction of seconds, looking down to see Arthur stopping from where he heaved you up onto your Trotter, and you quickly try to rezone yourself as he darts off to saddle up onto Bedwyr.

The poor stallion is frightened without a doubt, shifting and baying in warning, but he still remains steadfast as Arthur heaves himself onto Bedwyr’s back.

“Let’s go!”

You all waste no time, turning your horses and galloping off right as the sheriff reaches you, and you force yourself to look ahead as you hear them scream profanities and curses in your direction.

“After ‘em!” the sheriff reels.

You dart past the auction yard, hearing the men who follow you on horseback not too far behind as a shrill whistle from the train splits the air.

Looking over at the tracks, you can see the massive, black machine hurling down the tracks and towards the road leading out of Valentine, and you look to Arthur as it begins to slow for its scheduled stop, only some feet away from where you need to cross to safety.

“We won’t make it!”

To your right, Arthur doesn’t falter, “Yes we will! Push through it!”

D’or neighs in fright as the train screeches closer, its brakes causing sparks to fly up into the air like embers from a fire, the smoke from its engine turning the air black and hazy as the tracks near.

Karen and Sean go first, followed directly by Bill, the three of them narrowly escaping the train as it blows its horn in warning. And as you begin to cross, you happen to look left and over to the train, finding yourself nearly face to face with the grinding mass of metal as D’or practically jumps over the tracks to try and make it.

You can _feel_ the air behind you shift with the train blasting pass, your heart all but stopping in your chest as your brain tries to register that you somehow made it onto the other side of the road, just barely getting missed by the train.

At your side, you can hear Arthur shout a curse, and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you and the rest of the troop keep galloping away.  
With a glance over your shoulder, you can see the sheriff and his man through the windows and the gaps between the train cars as the train comes to a halt, and they stare after  
you as you hold their money close to your chest as you ride away with it.

No one says anything for a good minute, too hyped up on adrenaline and the close call with the train to say much until you’re a good distance away from Valentine, a few clicks away from Flatneck Station.

And then, you all slow, with Arthur turning to address the group once you all come to a halt.

“Alright, think that went well enough.”

“Did you see how fuckin’ close that train was!” Sean shouts, ripping off his bandana to reveal that he is grinning like mad from ear to ear, “I don’t even think a bullet got as close to me as that damned thing!”

“We got lucky today in a few ways. Real lucky,” Arthur begins, “But that doesn’t mean we need to take risks on account of thinkin’ we’re gonna continue havin’ it from here on out.  
So, everyone needs to split up, take the long ways back to camp to make sure you ain’t been followed back.”

“Right at ya, boss!”

“Also, Karen, you and Sean take the money back to camp.”

Frowning at Arthur’s words, you look at him.

“Why aren’t we takin’ it?”

“Ah, just hand it over, Wolf! Quit hoggin’ tha spoils!”

Your frown sours just a little more, allowing Sean to take the canvas bag full of the stolen auction money as Arthur nods in approval.

“Okay, now that that’s done, get gone. We don’t need to linger here too long...”

Bill and Karen also nod in acknowledgment to Arthur’s statement, and he sighs, taking off his hat to run his fingers through his hair.

Grinning, Karen goes over to Sean’s side on Old Belle, “’Course not, Arthur!”

“See you two ‘round!” Sean shouts as he and Karen go to ride together, and Bill huffs.

“God. I miss the days that he was gagged,” he mutters.

Nodding in agreement, Arthur murmurs, “Me too, Bill. Me too.”

Bill rides off then, leaving you and Arthur by yourselves. For a moment or two, things remain silent between you two, with nothing more than the occasional chirps of insects, and what sounds like a distant roar of the rolling breeze as it shifts the countless blades of grass and makes them dance like waves.

You look at Arthur, seeing the man is torn as you find your voice first.

“You gave the Sean and Karen the money because we’re not goin’ back to camp,” you murmur, eyes narrowing on Arthur, “Why?”

“’Cause... ‘Cause there’s somethin’ I gotta do before we really leave Valentine behind.”

You frown, tilting your head, “What on earth do you have left to do back there? Because we can’t go back, Arthur. There’s no way we could, not with what happened before we left Horseshoe and what we did just now.”

“We ain’t exactly goin’ to Valentine...”

You scoff, “Where are we goin’ then?”

“Downes’ Ranch.”

Your blood goes cold, and you feel your chest hollow at the name.

“D-Downes?” you repeat.

“It’s what Strauss told me about before we left,” Arthur’s voice is soft and reserved as he places his hat back onto his head, “Turns out Thomas Downes died yesterday.”

You suck in a shrill breath, looking at Arthur with wide eyes, “Then why on earth are we botherin’ his family for then?”

“In Strauss’ loan agreement, when someone dies, their debt is passed onto their closest living relative,” Arthur explains.

“Which means that what, Mrs. Downes is our newest debtor? Her son?”

“Wolf, it ain’t gonna be like that—”

“Then how is it gonna be, Arthur?” you snip, “Why on earth can’t we just leave them alone or just stop this altogether! Haven’t we tortured them enough? Didn’t we do enough to them? You told me you were gonna change—”

“I’m ridin’ over there to tell them the debt is canceled, Wolf!”

Arthur’s shout has you silenced, and you stare at the man as he looks away from you and out towards the expanse of The Heartlands.

“I meant it when I said I wanted to prove to you that I want to do better,” he explains, “I can’t take back what’s already done, no matter how much I want to... I know that today, even ridin’ over there and cancellin’ their debts, it ain’t gonna change what happened. I terrorized them. I beat Mr. Downes closer to death, I’m sure... And he’s gone no matter what I do today... But I can change what’s gonna happen to ‘em now that he’s gone.”

You’re silent as Arthur grabs up onto Bedwyr’s reins.

“You can come if you want, or you can ride back to camp, but it’s up to you... This ain’t somethin’ you have to make right with me.”

“Could...” you pause, “Could I come with? . . .”

“Sure, Wolf,” Arthur smiles, “Come on...”

 

**\---**

You find Edith and Archie at Thomas’ grave.

It’s a small plot, a respectable one at that. Underneath a large oak tree is where they placed him, a plain, wooden cross marking the fresh plot of dirt hidden under the shade of the tree as it sways in the wind.

Their soft cries are all you can hear apart from your footsteps on the grass, the blades of it crinkling under your boots as you and Arthur approach from behind them.

“Edith and Archie Downes?” Arthur calls.

The woman and her son react poorly to Arthur’s words, spinning around quickly from where they were huddled at the fresh grave to glare venomously at you both as you approach.

“Of course you’d come today, of all days,” Edith spits on the ground in front of Arthur, her distaste for the man evident with no doubts to its depths, “He’s dead. Thomas is dead... I don’t know what you want from us.”

Archie eyes Arthur hotly, and you seem him come closer to his mother, protective as Arthur takes a step forward.

“I... I wanted to tell you that the debt... it’s canceled.”

Edith’s eyes widen a little, but she quickly reins her surprise in, it quickly being overtaken by a strong sense of disbelief as she pulls back further from Arthur.

“Why should I believe you?” she hisses, “You beat m-my husband to death for what he owed... you’ve as good as killed him yourself...”

Edith’s scornful words make Arthur wince, but he powers through.

“I know what I did to your family, and there’s no way I can ever fix what happened no matter how much I wish for things to be different now,” Arthur says sincerely, and the pain in his voice strikes at you, “Listen, I’m not askin’ for absolution, nor do I seek it. But... I was originally sent here by Strauss to tell you that the debt would be carried over in your name, per his contract. But it’s not gonna be. In yours, or your son’s.”

Arthur then moves to his satchel, picking out his money clip and pulling quite a bit of money out and handing it over to Edith and Archie. His hand remains outstretched for a second or two as they both stare at him, unconvinced.

“This here, it’ll help you... I know... I know he took the loan because your farmin’ fell through, and you were destitute... Your... Your husband was a good man. A better man than I could ever be while tryin’. And I just... I just don’t want you all to suffer because he came across the likes of me.”

Edith eyes the stack of bills that Arthur holds out to her, and cautiously, she reaches forward, her bloodshot eyes dancing between the outlaw and the money before her.

“Why should we trust you?”

“You can trust me.”

Edith blinks as you appear at Arthur’s side, and you offer the woman a small smile.

“Who are you?”

“I’m Wolf, a friend of Arthur’s,” you tell her, “I... I’m sorry about what happened to your husband. I first met him in town, when I donated to his charity... He said it’s the little acts that make the biggest differences.”

Archie’s eyes narrow on you, and he slightly pulls away from his mother.

“He... He used to tell me that, every night when we read together,” Archie’s eyes water a little, “You did talk to him...”

“Yes. He was a kind, sweet man. I enjoyed his company, and I can’t express how sorry I am about your loss,” you explain.

“He was a good man,” Arthur adds, “And I’m sorry for the choices I made.”

“Thomas was good,” Edith begins to cry, sobbing openly, “He didn’t have a choice! He was _g-good,_ and he did good. He didn’t deserve to get sick, or to have the sickness that was this debt!”

“You don’t deserve it either, Mrs. Downes,” Arthur says sincerely, “And I’m here to make sure it doesn’t happen...”

Edith looks at Arthur, confused as she is pained, “Why do you care now? Why do you care about what happens to us, when just a few weeks ago you would’ve let us rot?”

“We ain’t never too far gone for change,” Arthur murmurs, “Or, I at least hope I’m not...”

Edith ducks her head, nodding once.

“If... If Thomas were still here, he’d encourage you to change. Even after beatin’ him, he would still have hope that you could become somethin’ more...” Edith wipes at her eyes, her messy bun allowing strands of her light blonde hair to fall around her flushed face, and she looks back to Arthur, “Release good upon the world, sir, if that’s what you truly intend to do... For you can decide the man that you wanna be for what time you have left...”

Her words strike a chord in Arthur, and his lips part softly as she takes the money from Arthur’s hand. Her palm shakes as she studies the money, knowing that, at heart, this is what her husband died over.

“I hope that, even with your change,” she whispers, her voice broken, “this is the last time I will ever have to see y-you...”

Arthur nods, ducking his head as Archie steps back over to his mother, holding her as she begins to cry, clutching the money like a lifeline and a curse against her chest as Archie regards you.

“You let that demon of a man Strauss know that we are movin’. He won’t be able to find us and torment us here come tomorrow...”

“With what I’m gonna tell him, he won’t need to,” Arthur ensures, his voice steadfast and full of promise, “I... I hope that things get better for you...”

Archie says nothing to Arthur, instead, leaning down to comfort his mother as she cries.

Arthur turns to you, and you can see by his stricken face that this has done a number on the man.

Together, you walk back to the horses, and you feel numb somewhat for watching the exchange as you and Arthur saddle back up onto your horses.

The first half of your ride back to camp is silent, and you can feel the turmoil in Arthur as though it were palpable as you rode past the massive, metal bridge that formed Bard’s Crossing. Arthur glares at the road ahead of him, stewing and having Edith’s words play over and over for him.

“You did good back there,” you praise him, your voice a bit sheepish as Arthur keeps looking ahead instead of at you as you speak, “I’m... I’m proud of you.”

“It went better than I figured it would,” Arthur admits, but you can still see how things transpired bothered him nonetheless, “But somethin’ like that can only go so well...”

“They may have been harsh, but anyone would’ve been in that situation... Hell, even I was when you visited me.”

“It was more than just debts, Wolf. Because I didn’t beat your father over your debt, did I?”

You frown at that, and you look back at the road.

Sighing, Arthur goes to apologize, “Sorry, Wolf, that was... That was uncalled for.”

“No... No. You have a point,” you tell him, “But, I just think... I think you need to recognize somethin’.”

Unconvinced by your attempts, he asks, “And that is?”

“You are tryin’ now... I... I snapped at you earlier when I found out where you were goin’, because I did expect you to kinda repeat what happened back in Valentine again,” your words make Arthur’s expression crumble a little, but you’re quick to explain your words, “I expected you to run after them and demand the debt get paid, Arthur. I didn’t expect you to make amends.”

“I just... I wanted to do good... Like you want of me.”

His words have a small spark light inside of your chest, and you smile, laughing softly before you shake your head.

“While I appreciate that... You should want it for yourself, too.”

“I do want it for myself, Wolf,” Arthur tells you, glancing across the small space between you both, “Sometimes, I have questioned what I do... I guess that some of it has just gotten so ingrained into me over the years, I stopped askin’ myself as I should’ve... But it’s happened. And it’s happenin’ a lot now that I’m older, and... and that things are changin’, whether I am or not.”

You let the man speak, listening intently as you ride on and he continues, the sun now beginning to set overhead.

“I feel like reachin’ Dutch is gettin' harder and harder the closer he gets to Micah, and with this whole revenge plot he has dreamt up towards the Braithwaites and Grays... It has me worried. It feels like everywhere we go, we just keep makin’ more n’ more enemies. And with the way we’re goin’, we’re not gonna be able to outrun or outsmart them all like he thinks we can,” Arthur sighs, his frustration showing through, “I’m tired of fightin’ people and everythin’ all the time, Wolf... I’ve lost a lot over the years because I kept thinkin’ that fightin’ was what I wanted to do, but now... Now I’m not so sure anymore.”

“I think we’re about to be on the verge of somethin’,” you tell Arthur, “Somethin’ is gonna happen. Somethin’ we can't come back from... and I’m not sure what we’re gonna do when that time comes.”

“Just pray that it doesn’t come soon,” Arthur mutters, and you can’t help agree as you ride back to camp together.

 

**\---**

Back at camp, there seems to be a bit of a celebration going on. Bill and Swanson are already drunk as Javier plays around the fire, his gentle singing bringing light to the air that you can’t help but smile at as you arrive back at camp, the sun all but set over the lake as the beginning of twilight takes over the sky.

When you stop and dismount your horses, Karen stumbles over, drunker and happier than you’ve seen her in a while as she nearly trips over her dress.

“I see you bein’ drunk isn’t a farce this time,” you tell her, “What’s the occasion?”

“T-The robbery!” she raises her arms, her newly opened beer spilling a little onto the ground with her motions, “We got _a loooooot_ of money!”

You let out some air, a fraction of a laugh, “I’d imagine... There was a lot in those safes...”

Curious, Arthur asks her, “How much did we pull?”

“T-Twenty-two thousand!” Karen beams.

Your eyes boggle as the full moon begins to come over the trees, the sky turning from a fading, blazing orange into a dark and dimensionless navy, “Twenty-two thousand dollars!?”

“Yep!” she hiccups, “Ain’t that just s-s-s-swell?”

You hear Sean laugh as he comes up from behind her, placing a kiss on her forehead and causing Karen to giggle openly and lean up against the Irishman.

“Oi, stop hoggin’ all tha beer, or there won’t be any when I get back!” he chastises her.

“Why can’t you j-just go ahead n’ drink wit’ me?” Karen pouts, sticking out her bottom lip.

“I told ya, love, I gotta job tonight wit’ Arthur n’ Wolf,” he grins then, “I’m gettin' to burn the Grays crops tonight! Fine reason not to drink, for once!”

Karen still seems displeased with his refusal, “You’re no fun.”

“Ah, I know, love. The hardest thing for a true Irishman to do is not drink... But listen, when I get back tonight, I’ll drink up an entire case wit’ ya! How does that sound?”

Smirking sloppily, she says, “Sounds good.”

“Alright. Now go meet Tilly n’ Mary-Beth at the table. They wanna play dominoes with ya, and they asked where ya was.”

Karen nods, but before she departs, she leans up on her boots, giving Sean’s cheek a hasty peck before she’s stumbling away.

“Ah... Gotta love her when she’s slobbered,” Sean states proudly, lustfully looking after Karen, “She can’t keep her hand off of me!”

“You’re both like that when you’re sober,” Arthur mutters.

“No matter!” the Irishman beams, and then he looks at you and the dress you’re still wearing, “Okay, now that matters.”

Realizing you’re still wearing your bank robbery garb, you flush a little, “Ah, yes... Could I change before we go?”

“’Course! Me n’ Arthur gotta grab a bottle of hooch from Hosea anyway, we can meet you at the horses when you’re done.”

At that, Arthur frowns, “Hooch?” he repeats, “Thought you weren’t drinkin’ ‘cause of the job?”

“Oh, this ain’t for drinkin’,” Sean grins mischievously, “This is for some poetic justice! You see, we’re usin’ someof the leftover Braithwaite shine Hosea saved to burn the Grays’ field wit’,” Sean laughs, “It’s downright sinful!”

At that, Arthur raises a brow and chuckles, “So it seems...”

“Alright, go ahead n’ get changed, Wolf. We’ll meet you back up here.”

You go to your tent, quickly pulling back the canvas front to remove the dreaded dress that Karen had you wear. Relief had never been as swift or as strong for you as it was now, peeling off the mass of fabric and feeling your body breathe for the first time since this morning.

Not wasting any time, you dress in the original outfit that you had laid out for the morning, and you feel something in you settle as you finish dressing by sliding your shirt over your head. Now you are comfortable, feeling more in your own skin as you slide the strap of your satchel back over your head, and you grab your hat back off of the nail it was tacked up upon.

Now left in a sad pile on your cot, you peel the canvas front of your tent back, leaving the horrid dress behind.

You find Arthur and Sean where you all had been before, but this time, they have a large jug in hand, the same ones that the shine you gave out in Rhodes yesterday had encased in.

They’re already on their horses, waiting on you as you arrive and immediately go over to D’or.

“Alright, now that’s more like it!” Sean beams, “You ready now, Wolf?”

“No time like the present, right?”

You lift yourself onto your mare’s saddle, sighing as the men begin to turn towards the trail leading from camp.

“So, how are we gonna do this?” you ask.

“I was thinkin’, the Grays have quite a bit a land... We could just leave the horses by the main road and sneak our way in. How does that sound?” Sean suggests.

“That could work,” Arthur agrees, “We could go by the back end, a bit further away from the main gate... Most of their fields are at the front of the property, though.”

“Fine by me to get a bit of leg work in,” Sean chuckles, “I heard about what Tavish did about that damned horse ya stole for him... He really just took it from us? No money at all?”  
“Oh no, he _paid._ It just depends on what his definition is compared to ours,” Arthur jokes humorlessly as you begin to leave camp, and riding out onto the trail leading to the main road, “His favor to us is that he didn’t turn us over to his son for the horse he asked us to steal.”

Sean whistles lowly, shaking his head then, “Wow... He really did play us, didn’t he? . . . No wonder Dutch is so pissed.”

“That Arabian was the only horse worth a damn,” Arthur grits out, “The other two he promised were worth five grand didn’t even make us one.”

“Honestly, it sounded too good to be true, but... we at least did good on the robbery,” you add.

“Oh, that we did!” Sean says proudly, “Hosea counted the money three times. Can you believe it? Twenty-two thousand dollars? That’s a lot of money!”

“Surely that’s enough, isn’t it?” you ask, “Like to run away and get out, I mean. ‘Cause this is what we’re doin’ all this for, right?”  
Sean hums, “I mean, depends on where we’re runnin’ of too I guess... We got a large group of people, Wolf. It’s gonna take a lot to get us far and really outta harm’s way, I’d imagine.”

“This is the most money we’ve ever had,” you tell him, “What are we aimin’ for then?”

Sean shrugs as you go to ride through Rhodes, “Not sure. But Dutch’ll tell us when he knows. We just have to have a set destination in mind, and then we’ll be right as rain with the rest. With what we got from the robbery today, I’m sure he’s startin’ to look n’ see where we can go now. Just like Dutch says, Wolf, have a lil’ faith!”

Sighing, you say nothing more on the matter.

Now Arthur takes the chance to speak up, “Any more news otherwise?”

“Well, there has been one thing, with that whole parley business with Colm... Dutch has agreed to it.”

Arthur’s shock is evident, and you can tell that this is the last thing the man ever expected to have happened.

“What? Seriously? He agreed to it?”

“Yeah, they already gave Dutch a date n’ time when Pearson talked to him about it a few days ago, after they confronted him in town. Instead of passin’ it up, he’s goin’.”

“Do you know when it is?”

“No, you’d have to ask Dutch or Micah.”

Arthur’s face darkens at the other man’s name, “What do you mean _ask Micah._ ”

“Dutch is takin’ Micah along since Micah was the main one who convinced him over. Like I said earlier, Pearson was down for the whole thing, but Dutch wasn’t considerin’ it until Micah told him to. Now he’s goin’ to help Dutch when he and Colm meet.”

Frowning, Arthur pushes further, “Is anyone else goin’ with, or is Dutch only takin’ Micah along?”

“I think they want you to go,” Sean admits, adding, “But that’s all they wanna take.”

“They want to meet with Colm when there’s only gonna be three of us? That sounds like straight trouble...” Arthur growls.

“Hosea wasn’t sold on it either, even before Dutch wanted to go,” Sean explains as you come upon the end of Rhodes, “Said it was probably a trap. I figure Hosea’s got a bit more money on the mark for ‘dis one... Colm’s never been good news for us, even in the short time I’ve ridden with tha posse here. Not sure why Micah’s so convinced that it’s a good idea, but that man’s got as much perception as Swanson when drunk... I wish I could tell ya more about it, Arthur, but that’s all this poor boy knows.”

Sighing tiredly, Arthur relents some, “Nah, I can’t expect you to know everythin’... Thanks, though.”

“I’m sure you can talk to Dutch more about it when we get back if he hasn’t pulled you over for it already. I’m pretty sure it’s comin’ up soon.”

Nodding, Arthur mutters, “I’ll keep that in mind...”

The rest of the ride is quiet as you begin to near Caliga Hall, seeing the orange lighting of the lanterns marking both the estate and the countless guards that surround and patrol it.

Sean and Arthur then pull over with you behind them, and you stow the horses off into a thicket of trees, hidden from the main view of the road and anyone snooping from Caliga Hall. As you dismount, Arthur calls you over with Sean to huddle.

“Alright,” he starts once you’re all together, “We’re gonna sneak over to the side fence, and when the guards leave a bit of an openin’ on their rounds, we gotta run for it. We’ve probably got about a thirty-second window to get into a field without bein’ spotted. After that, we just gotta find a lantern... Dutch wants to stage this as an accident, so the easier we can find one without causin’ issues, the better.”

“You lead the way, boss,” Sean tells him, holding eagerly onto the bottle of shine that was brought for the occasion.

Arthur nods, taking point as he motions for you all to follow.

“Alright, no talkin’ unless absolutely necessary. I’ll motion to ya for what to do...”

You follow up in the middle with Sean right behind you, and as you follow Arthur, you begin to sneak towards Caliga Hall.

The full moon hangs in the sky, her large, yellow face casting down light all over the tilled plots of tobacco lining the front end of Caliga Hall, and you watch as Arthur has you pause a few feet from the fence as the guards pass by one another.

After giving each other a reassuring nod, the guards continue walking in opposite directions, leaving a gap from where they pass over that grows with each step they take.

Arthur taps your shoulder, and as you look to him, you see him point towards the fence post. By sheer luck, there is an unlit lantern by one of the posts, resting for the guards to use. You let out a small breath of thanks for its convenience.

Waiting a few more seconds for the opening to get a bit more feasible, Arthur motions forward with two fingers, and you all run for it.

It’s hard to be so quick and quiet at the same time, especially as you go to hop the fence, vaulting over it as Arthur does the same at your side. Landing with a soft thud, you quickly focus yourself as you take the shine from Sean to allow him to get over the edge of the fence. Precious milliseconds tick by, and your breathing quickens as the guards go to turn and walk in your direction from both sides.

But, Sean manages to heave himself over the fence while Arthur grabs the unused lantern, and together, the three of you rush over to the edge of the tobacco field that grows just a yard or so away from the white fence, marking the edge of the Grays property.

You settle among the plants that grow thick and tall, and you let out a small breath as the guards continue their patrol, now focused on and walking towards the space you had just vacated.

Tapping you and Sean, Arthur motions for you all to crawl further into the tobacco field, further away from the edge and the proximity of the guards you just evaded.  
Together, you crouch and slither through the field, meeting in its middle as Arthur sets the lantern on the ground. It’s fresh and new, full of unused oil before Arthur takes the butt of his Colt, and breaks the glass containing it.

The lantern oil leaks out into the soil, the dry ground below swallowing it eagerly as Arthur looks to Sean.

“Uncork the shine. We’ll pour it through this field here to make sure it all catches when we light this thing,” Arthur whispers very lightly.

There is a slight, subtle pop from the cork stopper, and the distinct, strong scent of moonshine burns your nostrils as Sean smirks.

“You got it, boss.”

Sean tilts the shine, and he then proceeds to move, causing a line of it to grow and extend past the broken lantern as he moves through the field.

As he does so, Arthur looks to you as he goes into his satchel, pulling out his matchbook and catching your eyes, “Wolf... Once this lights... We gotta get out fast... The way this is so dry, it’s gonna light up quick.”

You swallow thickly, and you can see Arthur pull a single match from his matchbook as Sean comes back, his bottle of shine now emptied and lining the entire field of the Grays tobacco.

“It’s good to go for ya, boss,” Sean informs Arthur, “Just tell us when and we’ll go.”

Arthur nods, and he gestures to you both to step back, “This ain’t gonna take long...”

Arthur steps back himself, now a good two feet from the broken lantern and the line of poured shine that’s almost like a fuse to the dynamite that you have set in this field. Letting out a harsh breath, Arthur stares at the spot he intends to start the fire, and he starts.

The tip of the match scratches as its dragged against the grit alongside the side of the matchbox, and quickly, its tip sparks to life and burns with a sickening promise as Arthur acts quickly.

Tossing it onto where the broken lantern lay, the match does as it was intended with no remorse or hesitancy.

The oil from the lantern, the alcohol from the shine, and the dryness from the drought have created the perfect concoction for an inferno as the oil immediately lights, and the first flames begin to spread with a ravenous, unforgiving pace.

Arthur stumbles back, eyes widening at how quick the fire goes to spread, and you and Sean are also forced to react as the flames quickly grow in severity and quantity.  
The orange light from the flames grows with its size and ferocity, and you all quickly begin to run from the field as the guards take notice of the rapidly expanding blaze that greedily consumes the tobacco field.

“Shit! Fire, fire!” one guard screams.

The guards at the side of the fence you had snuck into dart towards the flames, leaving the side of the property open and free for your escape. Wordlessly, you all navigate there, running and jumping over the fence, uncaring for commotion for the one that is caused behind you.

As you dart into the woods to the side of the road, you look back, hearing countless men shout into the night as you see just how bad the flames have become. In mere moments, the flames have entirely overtaken the field of tobacco, eating up the dried-out plants and moving with the breeze as it licks at the rest of the Grays plantation. The fire rises several feet and is as bright as the sun as it gorges itself on the crops in its path, and your breath shudders a little as you sprint past the main gate.

The horses are only a few feet away, and you hastily run over to them, crashing through the trees as Sean just begins to laugh.

You hear the distant yells from the yards of Caliga Hall, and you put your hands onto your knees as you try to catch your breath.

“Oi, I would consider that a success!”

“That fire was too quick,” Arthur murmurs, still looking a bit on edge, “I was worried there that it was gonna catch us!”

“Ah, you worry too much, English! We made it out just fine!” Sean then comes over to you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder as you lean back up and laughing, “Ain’t no one gonna ca—”

# B A N G

You feel a splatter on your skin, and your breath halts in your throat as you feel Sean’s arm go limp, and slip away from your shoulder.

The world goes muffled, and all you can hear is a ringing in your ears as time seems to just slow, and everything narrows down to just you and Sean.

Sean, whose body crumples down onto the ground lifelessly, his lips still turn up in a smile, frozen onto his face by the bullet that shot through his skull.

Blood pools on the ground, black in the moonlight and growing out and soaking into the soil as you feel your heart and lungs shudder in your chest. And then, you feel something wet going down your face, and your shaky hand goes to your cheek as you go to touch what runs down your skin.

Your fingers pull back, and it’s then that you notice that your fingertips are covered with a bloody tear, and you can do nothing but stare at it stains your fingertip red.

#### BANG

The second shot causes you to jump, the world alarmingly coming into focus as you look up, see one of the Grays’ guards falling onto the ground just as Sean had.

“Rot, you damn bastard!” Arthur shouts, and you slowly look over to see him lowering his Colt, his chest heaving as he turns to look at you.

His face slackens, skin going pale and eyes wide as he takes in your state.

“W-Wolf...” he murmurs, voice breaking.

“Arthur?” you whisper, voice so soft you almost can’t hear it as you begin to shake, “Arthur... Is... Is he—”

“Shit... Shit, _shit shit!”_ Arthur roars, and he ruses over, knocked out of his own stupor as he comes to you while you are well into yours, “God, get... Get on D’or, Wolf. Now!”

You do as instructed as more yelling begins to pick up at the edge of Caliga Hall, coming closer to where you and Arthur are as Arthur leans down, grabbing Sean and heaving him onto the back of D’or as he whistles for Bedwyr.

Your eyes blur as your hands tremble violently, your breath all but stopping as Arthur practically jumps onto the stallion.

“Come on!”

You’re spurred into action, and so is D’or as a few bullets whiz past you and Arthur, cutting harshly through the air as you kick your horses into a gallop.

“Get back here, you god damn _vermin!”_

You keep riding, even after you pass from Caliga Hall and Rhodes, passing by the town and getting back to camp in what feels like seconds. Surely... surely it was longer than that. Longer than just a breath, than just a blink of an eye...

But it didn’t feel that way, not as you slow D’or at the mouth of the trail at the front of the camp, and you halt her before you’ve dared to cross over.

“God fuckin’ dammit,” Arthur runs a hand over his face, and he looks ahead, “We... We gotta do this... We gotta...”

D’or starts walking, passing through the trees and carrying you and Sean back into camp.

Your mouth is slightly agape and your heart thunders as she does so, bringing you upon the sight of the camp celebrating from earlier.

Already at the edge of camp is Karen, holding a case of whiskey at her side as she takes notice of your arrival. Instantly, she grins, standing up, unsteady but sure of her relief.  
Until you come closer.

Karen’s loopy smile falls and quickly sobers as she takes in your state, and wordlessly, she comes over, running as you see her already begin to fear what you have to reveal to her.

D’or stops just as Karen does a foot away, her eyes refusing to look at the back of your horse as she looks at you, caked and soaked in blood as you shakily dismount D’or.

Others notice what is happening, and the roar of celebration comes to a quick halt as Karen’s eyes begin to water.

“That blood... That... That isn’t from someone I know, is it?” she asks, her voice hollow.

You aren’t sure what to say. What you _could_ say.

Instead, you stand there, soaked in blood and shaking, unable to answer Karen as she stares.

Arthur rides up from behind you, looking just as stricken as he looks at Karen.

“Karen, we... It just...” Arthur’s attempts to talk are the only words spoken in the entire camp as everyone comes close, gathering around to see what has happened, “Karen, I’m... I’m sorry...”

“S-Sorry?” she repeats, and the tremble in her voice is palpable as she then looks to the back of D’or, “Sorry for what?”

The second her heart breaks is obvious.

Her face crumples, and the tears she wasn’t allowing herself to cry come forth in an anguished wail as reality sinks in.

Blood runs from Sean’s limp body down the back of D’or, soaking into her golden coat and turning it crimson as Karen openly wails.

Dutch then comes forward, eyes narrowed as he pushes through the crowd.

“What happened?”

Dutch then takes in the scene, eyes widening and his mouth opens. And for once, Dutch is at a loss for words as he takes in Sean’s body on the back of D’or.

He then looks at Karen as she cries, and he goes to set a hand on her shoulder.

Karen reacts violently.

She pushes Dutch’s away, her face flushed and red from her tears as she screams.

“Don’t fuckin’ touch me!” she screams, her shrill shout piercing through the night and causing your body to feel as though it were made of ice as she then faces you, eyes narrowing with the most putrid sense of anger you have ever faced, “You all killed him! You— you were s-s-supposed to b-bring him back to me!”

“Karen, please—”

“ _No!”_ she caterwauls, and she yanks herself away from Dutch once more as he attempts to console her, “You sent him there! They let him die! He died and I— I can’t—”

She rips herself away from the group, openly sobbing and screaming into the night as she leaves behind the gang and stumbles off into the dark.

You’re left standing there, wordless and unsure as the gang looks at you and at Sean’s body on the back of D’or.

“God... Ms. Broce, are you...” Dutch comes forward, his concern evident as he looks you over and sets his hands on the sides of your arms, his voice the softest you’ve ever heard it, “Are you alright?”

You can’t help it, the tears just start falling.

“N-No...”

Dutch takes in a sharp breath, and he then looks over his shoulder.

“Charles, Javier.”

The two men come over, and Dutch sighs as he lets his arms fall away from you.

“Take Sean,” he murmurs to the other men, “Bury him someplace nice... Give him as good as he gave.”

Charles and Javier nod, going to the back of D’or as Dutch takes a step away from you.

“Arthur,” he starts, and the man perks at Dutch’s call, “Take care of her.”

Tears fall in rivulets over your cheeks as you feel Arthur’s gentle touch upon your skin, guiding you away from the group as Dutch goes to address the rest of the gang.  
You can’t hear him though, his words unintelligible as Arthur guides you away from the camp, leading you further off from the group as he passes by where the horses are, and takes you out into the woods.

He says nothing to you, continuing to take you through the trees as you sob, unable to control the spasms in your chest or the tears that fall as you feel your skin and clothes grow tacky from Sean’s drying blood.

After a moment or two, the trees break, and you find yourself walking along the clear banks of Flat Iron Lake as Arthur stops you.

“Wolf,” he murmurs, so soft and barely heard above the gentle chirps of the crickets and cicadas, “I’m gonna grab some things back at camp, and I’m gonna come back, okay?”

You can’t respond with more than a small nod, too far gone to do much else.

“We’re not gonna stay in camp tonight,” he tells you, and he grips your arm tightly, “We’re gonna be right here. Just us, okay?”

“O-Okay...”

“Alright... Get yourself cleaned up... I’ll... I’ll bring you another set of clothes.”

You don’t respond this time, instead, letting Arthur pull away from you and slide away.

You hear him leave, and as he does, you look out towards the lake, your vision blurred with tears as you do so.

There are two canoes here, old and slightly filled with water on the bank, and further, out into the water, there is a small strip of land, one that you stare at as you start to undress.

You manage to get your pants off, alongside your boots, your hat, and your satchel. But you struggle with the buttons of your shirt, your breath picking up as you take in how the formerly white fabric has mostly been turned crimson.

You rip your eyes away, unable to even look at its state.

Still in your chemise and ruined shirt, you decide to go into the lake anyway, the feeling of the gritty lakeshore pressing back against your feet as you walk into the cool waters.

You stumble out into the water, going till you are up to your collar in the water before you stop.

You wait for a few moments, the water lapping at your skin and the stars twinkling above you as you drop your head below the water.

A few blissful seconds pass where there is nothing but the sound of your heartbeat and the thrum of the water before you resurface, your hair now sodden and dripping, and your eyes flashing open as you emerge from the water.

All you can think about is Sean.

Sean.

Sean.

His laugh, his smile. Etched into your memory as it was the last thing he heard and did before he died.

His blood, against your skin. His body, falling away from yours.

You hear Arthur return, but you do not look to the shore where he is. Instead, you face out at the rest of the lake, wondering what it would be like to just keep swimming until it swallowed you whole...

For how close had that shot been to you? A few inches, maybe? Had that guard’s aim just have been a bit off. . . it would’ve been a different body to bring back tonight.

You stand in the water, beginning to shiver after some moments when you hear a call from the shore.

“Wolf?”

You can’t dare turn to look at him, to see Arthur and face him.

He doesn’t call for you again, and you remain in the water as you hear something shift behind you.

You jolt, abruptly pivoting until you come face to face with Arthur, the water coming up to his chest as it soaks into his shirt. You stare at him, eyes wide as he looks at you, breath caught in his throat.

_How close had the shot been to him?_

The thought terrifies you as soon as it appears.

What... What if the guard had aimed at Arthur instead of Sean? What if Arthur had been the one who got shot, the one who—

Arthur’s hand comes up to your shirt, the fabric now a faded pink from the help of the water as you watch him begin to undo the buttons onto it. You offer no protest as his hands then disappear under the water as he goes to undo the rest.

You stand there, shaking and allowing him to do so as your mind reels, your thoughts nothing more than a symphony of _what if it was Arthur, what if it was Arthur—_  
Your shirt comes off easily, and Arthur frowns as he takes in the sight of your chemise. It is also stained, ruined and forever damned after tonight, and he eyes you carefully as he lets your old shirt float away in the water.

“Wolf, I...” he stops himself, eyes ducking down and avoiding your own as all you can do is stare at him, “You have to let me know... Are you... Do you want me to— . . .”  
His question dies off with his uncertainty, and all you can hear in your head is Lenny’s voice from yesterday.

_And a part of me wonders if it would’ve been easier to never have said or done anythin’, to have saved myself from the pain of havin’ lost her..._

Arthur looks at you, his lips softly parting as your heart begins to pound in your chest.

_I realize that if I had never gotten to tell her, to kiss her, to have the last of the time that I spent with her be somethin’ special and just for us, that I would be even worse off than I am now._

“Wolf, are you—”

You kiss him.

You feel Arthur’s lips slacken with surprise, but you only press further, wrapping your arms around his neck as you come close and move your mouth against his.

The man’s calloused lips part with almost disbelief, but then, slowly, as if waking up, he allows you in as his hands move to your waist, and he pulls you closer.

You kiss him. You kiss him with all the desperation you can manage. You kiss him through all the pain that you feel.

You kiss him with longing. With desire. With an eagerness. With a fear that tonight, you came so close to losing the opportunity to even do something as simple as be with him.

You pull back just enough to breathe, a small, needy noise escaping you as Arthur’s arms go taught around you, and you press your foreheads together.

“Don’t... Don’t you d-dare,” you cry, tears falling down your cheeks again, only to fall and be lost in the lake water below, “Don’t _leave me—_ ”

You can’t finish your plea, pressing your lips together again until Arthur pulls back to answer you.

“Darlin’, I won’t— I _won’t—”_ he hisses, his promise full of both a hunger and an emotion so deep that you know the bottom of the lake were merely scratch at its surface, “God, Wolf, I... I could never...”

You feel his hands go to the lace ties of your chemise, and together, you both begin to pull yourselves out of the water, hands and mouths cloying at each other as your fingers go over to undo the buttons of his shirt.

His beard scratches at your skin in a way that causes a shiver to go down your spine as you feel your chemise loosen, and you both begin to go up onto the bank.

A few inches away from the water, both your chemise and Arthur’s shirt fall onto the ground, leaving your torsos bared for each other’s gaze and touch as you explore one another freely, making it over to the start of the bank.

You are completely uncovered for him as he sets you down onto a bedroll he had placed for you, your wet skin glistening in the moonlight as you stare up at the man, cheeks flushed and lips plump as Arthur just stares at you, drinking you in.

“Wolf, you...” the man grits his teeth as you breathe out, his pupils blown as he licks his lips, the sight of you bare and underneath him, surrounded by grass and wildflowers that bloom and dance like the twinkle in your eyes, “God, you’re so beautiful...”

You let out a fraction of a breath, leaning up immediately to steal the man’s lips again as you run one hand through the wet chest hair that presses against his chest and the slight ridges of his muscles on his abdomen, and the other dips lower.

You find the button to his jeans, and you pop it greedily, nipping at his bottom lip as you go to the fly of his jeans.

You feel a pressure there, the fabric taught and pressing harshly against the face of the denim, and you press there, feeling Arthur roll his hips into your hand and let out a glorious groan against your lips. The sound is cathartic, and you slide the zipper down to begin removing his jeans.

The man makes quick work of them, pulling away from your mouth for just a few moments to peel the wet denim from his hips, and off of his legs alongside his boots. He tosses them both off to the side, abandoned like the rest of your clothing as he leans over you, breathing heavily as the moon causes the water to glisten on his skin.

You stare at each other for a moment, taking in the sight of each other until your eyes meet, and you can’t break your gaze away from one another.

You’re not sure who the first to move is, but suddenly, your mouths are crashing back together, and you fall back further onto the ground. You let out a small breath as he pulls back, eyeing you hungrily.

“You... You ever done this before with anyone?” he asks.

“N-No,” you murmur back.

Arthur curses, his forehead falling against yours as he lets out a hissed breath.

After a second or two, he goes to your ear, murmuring, “I’m gonna touch you, okay?”

You feel Arthur’s hand slip down, his calloused fingertips running over your left thigh and down until you feel them pressing between your legs. Instinctually, you spread them for Arthur, allowing him to press into you and sink into your heat as you let out a small gasp.

Arthur then begins to mouth at your ear, nibbling at the lobe as you press your head back, exposing your throat to the man as he begins to work his fingers inside of you.  
Minutes pass, and his mouth moves to your neck, biting and sucking and kissing all the same as you make small noises, ones that cause Arthur to tense and give an aborted thrust of his hips.

You feel him ease his touch, being able to slowly work you open more and more with an occasional slight pinch from the stretch, but he manages to get you just right.

“Absolutely perfect,” he says breathlessly.

His hand is removed from you, and you feel your breath catch as he takes it, and wraps it around his cock.  
You stare, watching as he takes what beads at the tip and rubs it over the rest of its length, the swollen girth in his hands twitching a bit as he looks at you, stopping right before he enters.

“You... You still want this?” he asks, almost disbelieving of what is happening.

“Yes,” you beg, “Please, Arthur, just... Just—”

He thrusts into you slowly, and you throw your head back, gripping onto Arthur as he slides himself into you fully. Your body shudders, and your throat goes dry as you turn your head from side to side, attempting to process the feel of Arthur’s length pressing into you as he stills overhead.

“G-God,” he shivers, and you hear the grass rip up from where he has grabbed handfuls of it at either side of your head, “Wolf, you feel...”

You pull him down, kissing him once more until you plead once more.

“ _Move._ ”

Arthur complies, sliding out first, slow and steady, until he’s coming back into you. Your breath and heart catch in your throat, and you gasp, practically hiccupping as you start to tear up once more.

“W-Wolf?”

“Please, please—” you pull him closer, your hands grabbing the sides of his face as you cry, “Please just keep goin’... I can’t... Please, just do anythin’ but _stop.”_

Arthur does as you tell him, and you press your lips against his own just as you had in the lake, greedy and wanting and desperate as your emotions surge forth.

All that you have felt, all that you’ve repressed, ignored, denied, dismissed... it all comes forth to what you haven’t let yourself imagine. What you haven’t let yourself feel.

What you’re now letting yourself have.

You grasp onto Arthur like a lifeline, feeling overwhelmed as you feel like a boat in a storm, rocked by Arthur’s rhythm and touch, and caught between the feelings he gives you and is causing now.

But he catches one of your hands with his own, your fingers intertwining just as your bodies do as your mouths and skin slot together.

The feeling of him working in and out of you makes you constrict around him, gasping through the press of your lips and the slide of your tears on your cheeks, and Arthur brings up his other hand to touch your face so gently that you almost don’t feel him at all.

Fragile, just like this moment. Just like how close you had come to losing him tonight.

The fear that you feel at that causes you to practically shrivel on the inside, and you grab at Arthur desperately, as though he could always stay with you if you never let go.  
And he grabs back. He touches. He presses. He wants.

A desire you had never seen from the man brought to life and overtaking you both as he rolls into you in tandem, like waves upon the shore to your backs as the moon hangs heavy in the sky.

Your body begins to shake, like a star burning too bright and too hot and on the verge of collapse as Arthur begins to shudder and groan. You feel as though you are racing towards a cliff’s edge, teetering and about to fall as Arthur grips onto you to take the plunge.

“Wolf... I— I lov—”

Arthur’s words are cut off as he groans, and you gasp, feeling something you have never felt before wash over and drown you. Like when you had ducked your head under the water in the lake, you feel consumed, gasping for breath as your nails dig into Arthur’s back and you cry out.

Arthur grinds one final time, sinking in deep as your bodies pulse in sync, his breathing rough as he gasps, lips parting as his eyes slink closed, and he comes inside of you.  
Arthur slips out of you as soon as it happens, almost shocked as though he had allowed himself to do such a thing. You blink, looking up at Arthur and furrowing your brow through the haze.

“A-Arthur?” you ask.

The man catches himself, his panic ebbing away as he looks at you, swallowing thickly as reality seems to dawn on him first.

You lean up a little on your elbows, your eyes slightly narrowing on him.

“Are you okay?” you ask, “You don’t... You don’t regret that, do you?”

“I...” the man’s voice is hollow as he looks away, and he runs a hand over his face and whispers, “I wasn’t expectin’ the night to go like this.”

Your stomach sinks, and you curl up a little on yourself.

“So you do regret it...”

Arthur looks at you then, and his eyes struggle to stay on you, “Wolf, it’s not that. It’s not that at all.”

Then, so quiet and meek, as though you’re afraid everything with him will fall apart at this very second, you ask, “Then what is it?”

Arthur stays silent, and your fear from before morphs, and grows.

“Is it because you didn’t want to sleep with me? Is it because there’s someone else? Somethin’ else—”

“Wolf, no,” the man asserts, and your heart stops in your chest as he seems angered now, “It’s... I’m not sure how I can explain it.”

You pull your legs up to your chest, and you wrap your arms around your knees, “Could you?”

“Wolf, it's not that easy...” Arthur murmurs, “But it ain’t you, okay? It ain’t you at all...”

You aren’t sure what to say or do as Arthur stands up, going over to a pile of things and grabbing a new pair of jeans.

He puts them on without another word, and you feel your throat tighten as leans down to grab something else.

It’s a shirt and a pair of pants of yours, and he turns around, offering them to you.

“Get dressed,” he says softly, “I... I don’t think we’d like anyone walkin’ over and seein’ this...”

You take the clothes numbly, and Arthur turns away, not looking at you even though he had been drinking you in only moments before as you get dressed.

Your heart feels numb in your chest, hollow and as though it were beginning to crack as you slide your jeans on first, and then your shirt.

Once you’re dressed, Arthur clears his throat, and you turn to see him rolling out another bedroll, about a foot or so apart from the one he had laid you one earlier.

“We should rest... I... I have to ride out with Dutch in the mornin’—”

“So we’re gonna pretend this didn’t happen?”

Arthur blinks, looking at you as you glare hotly at him, “What do you mean?”

“You and I, we— we—” you can’t even manage to say it, your eyes water up as you clench your hands into fists, “Don’t fuckin’ tell me that was all for nothin’...”

“It ain’t,” Arthur insists, but he can’t even manage to look at you as he says it, “It ain’t just nothin’.”

“Then are you gonna stop actin’ like you didn’t just sleep with me!” you shout.

Arthur stops cold, and his eyes lock onto you as you cry once more.

“I... I can’t deal with that tonight,” you tell him, “I can’t have you let me in like that and just s-shut me out the next second...”

Arthur curses, and he shakes his head as he thinks, placing his hand over his face.

A moment passes, and you hold your breath until Arthur looks back at you.

“I... I’ll tell you when I get back tomorrow, okay?” he looks at you, sincere as he was when he made the promise not to leave, “I promise...”

You feel like it’s a loss either way, and so you let out a hollow breath as you lay down on your own bedroll, alone and facing away from the outlaw.

“If you don’t keep it,” you tell him, “I don’t think... I don’t think I can pretend.”

Arthur says nothing, but you close your eyes.

For everything is now seemingly falling apart.

And, despite all of the warnings and all of the advice and encouragement you had been given, it has not because of what you didn’t do.

But for what you did.

 

 

**\---**

Morning is golden and quiet, the morning light passes through the morning fog and forming a blinding glow to form in the air.

The birds sing as you open your eyes slowly, taking in the sight of the clouds moving slowly above you as you hear Arthur packing up at your side.

Sitting up, you look over to the man, finding him fully geared as he folds his bedroll to put onto the back of Bedwyr’s saddle.

His back is facing you, but you know the man hears you and knows you’re awake, because he doesn’t jump when you speak.

“So are we gonna talk now, or are you gonna try n’ pull my chain by sayin’ we’ll talk later?”

“Straight to the punch, are we?” he asks, fixing the straps on Bedwyr’s saddle to secure his bedroll back in.

“This isn’t somethin’ you ignore or pretend didn’t happen,” you hiss, “Or at least, I ain’t capable of doin’ such a thing.”

“I’m not ignorin’ anythin’, Wolf,” the man turns to face you, eyes and face scrunched up, “I... Last night was... I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I’m sorry.”

Your heart falls.

“So you do regret it?” you ask numbly.

“No, Wolf, I—” Arthur walks towards you, stopping till there is a foot between you that feels so much bigger than what it truly is, “I want to talk to you. I want to explain why... why I feel the way that I do... It’s not regret that I feel.”

Your words are dubious, “And what is that you feel.”

“It’s disappointment. And not with you, or what we did, but with myself. I... I shoulda done better by you. You... You deserved better than that.”

You scoff, shaking your head, “Don’t start with me deservin’ more than you or what we did... Because what happened is done, and the last thing I wanna hear is that you’re sorry for it.”

Arthur ducks his head, and then he takes a deep breath before looking back to you.

“Arthur!”

You and Arthur are knocked out of your discussion as Dutch begins to approach you both.

At his arrival, you wipe t your eyes, slightly turning away from the man as he takes in the tension between you both.

“Oh... I’m not intrudin’, am I?”

Not hiding his irritation, Arthur grits out, “What do you want, Dutch?”

“We’re gettin’ ready to ride out,” he pauses, “You comin’?”

“Yeah. I’ll be right there.”

Dutch eyes you both curiously as he departs, leaving you behind as Arthur lets out a haggard noise and steps closer to you.

You're surprised as Arthur tilts your head up from your chin, his eyes soft on you.

“I wish I could tell you everythin’, but the timin’ just ain’t right,” he tells you quietly, “Just... wait for me. I’ll... I’ll try to explain when I get back.”

You force yourself not to lean into his touch, or to chase after it as his hand falls away.

“Okay...”

Arthur smiles, but it’s sad as he begins to step away.

“I should be right back, okay?”

You only nod, holding onto yourself as you watch Arthur turn and mount onto Bedwyr. And then, without a glance back at you, he spurs the stallion forth, leaving you behind.

And as the distance between you only grows further, you wonder if getting closer to him was the worst choice you’ve ever made.

 

**\---**

To bide the time, you read your mother’s letter, finding out that the woman is near O’Creagh’s Run. She befriended a veteran there, and spoke highly of him, stating that he offered her a place to say and that he’s a gentleman.

It does bring a little back to the day.

Jack also visits, bringing Cain with him and talking to you. The boy is a ball of energy and happiness that you found you needed, and when he goes off to play with his dog, Abigail and John talk to you a little as well.

You pointedly keep your conversations away from either Sean or Arthur, and they seem to catch on enough to spare you from being reminded of what you’re trying to forget.  
But with Hosea, what happened outside of Caliga Hall just comes out. You tell him about the night with Sean and what happened, but it is the only acknowledgment you give. When the old man asks about Arthur, you refrain from speaking, and so the man comforts you through what you allow him to.

Otherwise, you stick by yourself, with Charles and Sadie sending you empathetic glances while you hide away in your tent, especially when Karen first comes around.

She’s still drunk, and now, she is the only one drinking in the camp, her blonde hair knotted and tousled around her face messily, and her eyes bloodshot from tears and lack of sleep.

She snaps and yells at anyone she sees, and when she’s by herself she yells at the sky and laughs hopelessly from her own agony as she drowns herself further and further with alcohol.

Karen even calls out your name a few times, alongside Arthur’s. Trying to find you, cursing you, blaming you. She obviously feels the same as she did last night.

You know that there’s no chance you could approach her, to tell her anything or to comfort her in the way she desperately needs. She won’t allow such a thing, and so you’re left hiding in your tent, waiting as the sun begins to set and your heart grows less and less convinced of Arthur keeping his word.

And by the sun begins to set, you hear Dutch return.

“Aye, back so soon?” you hear Javier say to the man as he rides up with Micah.

“Yes, I’m afraid to say that our trip went well, for whatever it is,” Dutch says as he begins to dismount The Count.

You ignore their conversation, pushing through camp as you come up to the man and interrupt them directly.

“Where’s Arthur?” you ask, disregarding the slight flash of annoyance that passes over Dutch’s face.

“He rode out with us, but he decided he was gonna ride off once we were done with our errand,” Dutch tells you.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, Wolf,” Micah cuts in, looking at you with a slight smirk despite how upset you obviously are over what has happened, “but Arthur ain’t comin’ back tonight.”

Your breath hitches in your throat, and you’re only able to nod.

Then, you slip away, the men going back into their discussion as you go into your tent.

The tears fall down your face without your permission as you pack your bag, and you shove practically all you own into it as you can only think about how much of a fool you were to have trusted Arthur.

_He lied. He lied. He lied._

It’s a mantra that plays over in your head as you exit your tent, passing through camp as you go over to where the horses are. No one stops you, allowing you to go over and immediately grab onto D’or.

Kieran, however, catches you as you are heaving yourself onto the saddle, his lips drawing up into a deep frown as he looks to you.

“Where ya goin’, Wolf?”

“Anywhere,” you mutter, miserable as you gather up D’or’s reins, “A-Anywhere but here...”

You don’t hesitate to spur D’or forth, and Kieran goes to call after you.

_He lied. He lied. He lied._

You take D’or, riding out into the darkening night, your mind racing as she does over everything that has happened.

_He lied. He lied. He lied._

You pass Rhodes, your tears falling as fast as D’or’s hooves down onto the rusted soil below.

_He lied. He lied. He lied._

The moon hangs, a slight sliver away from being full as you ride past the sign welcoming those who enter Lemoyne as you pass over its border.

_He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied._

You ride forth, sobbing and working D’or hard as you aim her north, and you being to cross into Emerald Ranch.

_**He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied. He lied.** _

Passing Three Sisters, the lake forming O’Creagh’s Run comes into view, and down along its banks and through the nestling of pine trees, you see it— the light from the veteran’s cabin.

You don’t hesitate, getting D’or down near the water as you continue crying.

_**HE LIED. HE LIED. HE LIED. HE LIED. HE LIED. HE LIED.** _

You all but fall off D’or’s saddle, your eyes stinging and lungs burning as your poor Trotter breathes roughly from such a long, grueling ride.

And once you are at the door, you knock upon it, hearing a shuffle inside as your breath halts, and the door is pulled open.

Widening her eyes as she sees you, your mother is shocked to see you, “W-Wolf?”

“M-M-Mama—”

“Ma fleur,” she rushes forward, wrapping you up into her arms and running her fingers through your hair, “My goodness, what happened?”

### H E. L I E D.

You can’t do anything but only break down further, crying in your mother’s arms as she makes a worried noise and pulls you inside.

“It’s okay,” she tells you, voice a soft melody as she repeats herself over and over, a mantra of repetition spoken with the hopes that her words will be true as you cry against her,  
“You’re gonna be alright... You’re gonna be alright...”

And as she sets you down onto a bed, your exhaustion just overtakes you.

“Don’t worry now, ma fleur,” she kisses your forehead, “You’re here now...”

 

**\---**

 

##### T H R E E D A Y S L A T E R

 

The deep, pure blue of the water at O’Creagh’s Run allows you to watch the salmon and other countless fish swim near shore as you sit along it, plucking at the dragon’s mouth orchid that had been growing by the shore.

Each fiery orange petal is ripped angrily from where it grows off from the stem, plucked and abandoned onto the lakeshore moments after you had peeled it away as you stare out into the lake.

Your mother stands from the porch of the veteran’s home, watching warily as she has done over you the past few days, a cup of coffee in your hand as you openly sulk and stew by the water.

You’ve done nothing but try and ignore what you’re feeling, to ignore the utter betrayal and hurt that you feel about what happened. About Arthur’s actions, and the promise that he made from them.

The one man who promised he would never leave, the one man who had maybe, just maybe, made you believe in true love... just threw all of that away.

For what? One night? One decision?

You pluck another petal angrily.

One _mistake._

The poor, depetaled flower is thrown onto gravel below, and you cross your arms over your knees, folding your head down onto them so you can just listen to the sound of the nearby waterfall to drown out your thoughts.

But instead, all you hear is a clearing of a throat.

You’re surprised, jumping up and turning a little from your spot on the ground, and you come face to face with none other than Charles.

Your eyes are wide as you scramble to your feet, and you look at the man, shocked as you are bewildered.

“C-Charles?” you say in disbelief.

Your mother comes up without hesitation, raising her engraved carbine at the man and glaring his way.

“You ain’t welcome here—”

“Mom, no... Just... Drop the gun, I know him.”

Your mother relents, lowering her weapon from where she had raised it in her haste from the porch. But she still eyes Charles with distrust, and the man chuckles at her spite.

“I know where you get it from now.”

Sighing, you look to him, “Charles, why are you here?”

The man’s smile falls, and his brown eyes grow serious, “I was lookin’ for you... Is... Is Arthur with you?”

Scoffing, you venomously seethe, “No. He hasn’t been since he left with Dutch a few days ago... Why, did he run off on you too?”

“No, Wolf,” Charles eyes narrow, and he shakes his head, looking more upset than you expected him to be, “If... If he isn’t here with you, then... then...”

You look at him, growing impatient, “Then what?”

“Then it means I was right, and something’s gone wrong. Very wrong.”

“W-Wrong?” you echo.

Charles looks you in the eyes, his own squinting as he murmurs, “I came up here lookin’ for you both, Wolf... Arthur, he’s... Arthur’s been missing for four days.”

And despite all the resentment you feel, all the anger, all the upset, all of the regret— your heart manages to somehow break for a second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> plz don't hate me oops.
> 
> Prompt me, ask me like google, or submit shit at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/ask
> 
> If you want to support me, you can by giving me a ko-fi!  
> ko-fi.com/cfluffy
> 
> This was written to:  
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9eCU2XMpVak
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=35XptNZU2OA

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt me at:  
> sunshinexlollipops.tumblr.com/promptme


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